Castle Part 1 and 2
by Timmy2222
Summary: A wealthy lady takes action to change the course of Gondor's history, and a captured Aragorn faces the evil Men can create. Main part: Aragorn Éomer and Faramir assist.
1. Default Chapter

Castle (Part 1) By Timmy2020  
  
Disclaimer: The characters of Aragorn, Éomer, Arwen, and Faramir belong to the heirs of Tolkien. I do not own them or make any profit of them. The rest of the characters belong to me.  
  
Important note: This story was first published under my pen name Timmy2020, but for unknown reasons the account is invalid now. So I had to change pen name and e-mail address to post it again. So, please, don't accuse me for plagiarism. The story is still the same and mine.  
  
Storyline: Angered by the death of Denethor Lady Saborian, a wealthy Lady from Gondor, takes action to change the course of history. The King of Gondor shall lose his reign.- It is a story with Aragorn in the leading action, the rest of the known characters assist.  
  
"Castle" hereby is taken from the game of chess when the King changes places with the Castle to keep the King safe.  
  
Recommended rating: PG 13  
  
Note: This is my first story in the universe of Middle Earth, and so I come from Germany my English will never be adequate. Finally and thanks to Raquel the story is fully beta-read.  
  
Many heartfelt thanks to my friends Katja (katzilla) and Mouse for their help and enthusiasm that got me started and brought logic to the project.  
  
Comments, thoughtful insight etc, please, mail to Timmy2020@gmx.de  
  
Castle  
  
Day 1, Deromonor  
  
At dawn they brought him forward to the Lady.  
  
The soldiers were weary with fatigue and longed for food and a fresh beer, but for they knew she would never have tolerated a failure, they were quite relieved to present the prisoner alive and - as they would call it - in good condition. Dressed in a dark blue floor-long dress with silvery patterns she waited for her men to come to a halt. She pursed her lips as she always did when she was satisfied with the grim work of her able followers, a fact that would raise their salary and their mood. The soldiers and all other personnel working within the walls of Deromonor called her the 'Lady of Ice' behind her back, but she knew. As she knew all the things happening in her castle at the western border of Gondor, near the mountains. And her spies in the White City had told her three weeks ago that the man, who was her prisoner now, would go for a hunt in the long forsaken forests of the kingdom with only a few trusted men at his side. The plan had already been set before, and its execution had been easier than expected. Briefly she had thought it might be a trap to throw her off her castle's highest tower. But nothing had happened.  
  
Nothing unexpected at least.  
  
She eyed her prisoner closer, not allowing herself to show any kind of satisfaction or glee. These feelings would be reserved for the time when she was alone. At the moment she wore a mask of indifference. The tall man in front of her wore his dark brown hair long, but kept his beard short. And though he was the most important person of the kingdom his dark green, long-sleeved tunic under a used looking leather coat, tight trousers, and brown, long-worn leather boots did not give him the look of a person of higher standing. The Lady thought that even this look would change before long. His grey eyes were throwing cold flames at her for he could not speak. The guards escorting him up to her room had gagged him with a rolled piece of leather, and though she had not ordered this measure she agreed with it. Her whole plan was based on secrecy. So he could only clench his chained hands into hard fists. They alone told more than words would have. His wrists were full of bloody scratches, proof that he had tried to break the handcuffs, probably used every chance to attempt to escape. For a moment she glanced admiringly at the two guards holding the man's upper arms. It must have been a fierce fight to catch him - and let him alive. The prisoner was still restless, tugging at the guards' arms trying to break into a run, but they held fast, not allowing him more than a few inches to move.  
  
The Lady would not have wanted to be alone in the room with her prisoner. Even now he was a threat. His body was tense, searching for a second of inattention, willing to use it. Keen eyes wandered to the doors, quickly checking out how much time he would need to reach them. It was clear to her that capturing the man did not mean to hold him for long. His achievements were legendary. She had heard the songs sung by the people of Minas Tirith praising his courage on the Pelennor Fields and elsewhere. She did not bother to recollect all the places where he had proved himself a successful leader and a master with the sword. She did not want to hear about them. It would just have raised more anger and frustration. For six months she had concentrated on plans to destroy his power. And now he was standing in front of her – beaten by her men, gagged, in chains. He had lost the very fight for his freedom. It would take time to break his will and make him give into his destiny, but she was willing to spend this time. It was yet too early to even think about the moment when he would willingly fulfil the task she had thought of for him. But time was on her side. No longer on his.  
  
She took one step closer. The prisoner's clothes were torn at the shoulders and forearm, and a long, bloody chap could be seen. Her admiration for her own men grew, and she wished she could have been there that night when they finally attacked the King and his friends. The exciting thought alone caused her goose-flesh. Sometimes she despised not being born a man. The guard put the King's belongings - a silver chain, a ring, dagger, and sword among other things - on the table. She glanced at the sword. 'Andúril,' she remembered. Proof that the King was the last in the line of Numenor and heir to the throne as they all had cheered. She shivered with disgust and quickly turned back to the scene before her.  
  
The soldiers had told her a few minutes ago that they had made the prisoner walk the last twenty miles to exhaust him. But to the Lady he did not look exhausted or depressed. More likely he was challenging the guards - and her. Telling her by his intensive stare that he would not give in. Not now and not in ten weeks. 'We'll see to that,' she thought. 'Other men thought the same – and cried for release within days.' Upon her look a third guard stepped closer to the captive and took away the gag. The prisoner loosened his jaw.  
  
"Why did you bring me here? What do you want?" he spat angrily, but just raised a small, complacent smile from the Lady. Now she was in her element. It was a moment she had hungered for months – literally since the inauguration of the new King.  
  
"It is not a prisoner's privilege to ask questions," she replied coolly and walked a few steps away from him. She felt her heart beat faster and had to calm herself down. Had there been any day so satisfying and positive? She put these thoughts aside and continued, "But to satisfy your curiosity... You are here to stay here. To be a servant to this castle."  
  
The prisoner must have been surprised – outraged even - but he kept himself upright and perfectly under control.  
  
"You cannot keep the King of Gondor prisoner for long!"  
  
The Lady spoke slowly and convincingly.  
  
"I can and I will. Your position here will be defined by your behaviour. If you deny obedience we will have to treat you like a prisoner." The Lady smiled another icy smile. In her imagination he would be a prisoner with very limited freedom for all the time coming.  
  
"Obedience? You commit treason! So you will either release me or face the army of Gondor."  
  
She admired his trust into an army that was in a state of rebuilding. The long and hard fight against Mordor had cut the size of his army by half. And though the free folks eagerly joined the forces the army needed years to regain its old strength. It was clear that the men still in service were unable to attack this castle. They had neither the number nor the skill to fight the walls of Deromonor while it was fully armed and its men on alert. Without its charismatic leader the army of Gondor had no one to follow. Faramir was far away. And even if he would leave his beloved wife Eowyn behind, he would need weeks to take the place of the leader of an exhausted handful of men. If he would make it this far.  
  
"We both know that there is no such threat," she said calmly, and though he did not want her to see it, he agreed with her argument. He clenched his fists again so that the chains were rattling. For a moment it was the only sound in the room.  
  
"So the question remains," he went on, putting all threat he could muster into his words, "What do you want? Why did you kill my men and force me into your castle, Lady Saborian?"  
  
She lifted her eyebrows astonished that he knew who she was. They had met only once – on the day he had ascended the throne and received the crown. She hatefully remembered how the audience had cheered and had thrown their hats in the air while she and a few others had remained silent in their grim. Now she could not restrain herself any longer. The hatred that had burnt in her for so long now burst out of her.  
  
"Why did you come back to claim the throne of Gondor? It was no longer yours."  
  
"How can you dare say that?"  
  
She hated his surprise, his denial when confronted with the truth. How could he be so bold!  
  
"Denethor would never have committed suicide if it wasn't for you!" the Lady broke out. "If you had not left your exile, the Steward would still be alive and my son would have been his successor."  
  
"Faramir would have been the next Steward, and you know that."  
  
"Faramir?" she repeated sarcastically. "Not even his own father wanted him to become Steward! He will be mourned for. As well as you."  
  
"Even if you kill Faramir," the King replied, "You cannot win."  
  
She calmed herself down, flattening her gown with her hands.  
  
"We will see to that soon enough. But you... you were nothing but a fairy tale among the elders. You did not even exist! What made you leave your hideout and crawl back into the light?"  
  
"I said that I never wanted that power," the King replied in a somewhat flat voice. The Lady just huffed. "When the fight came to me I could not back down. And you will not rewrite history by making me your prisoner."  
  
"History will judge if you were a good king - though your time was short." She eyed him, waiting for a rebellious reply, but he remained calm.  
  
"Even if the son of Denethor will not take his rightful place - Lady Arwen is respected among our people. She will lead them on if I do not return."  
  
"Your lovely lady is taken care of." Now she had his full attention. His fury was flaming again, and he raised his fists as far as the chains let him. "She will not sit on that throne - nor will anyone you would choose."  
  
He made a step forward.  
  
"If you hurt her...," he started, but at the same moment the fist of the third guard connected heavily with his stomach. Aragorn clenched his teeth, remained upright, not willing to show his captor a sign of weakness.  
  
The Lady's eyes narrowed, and her voice was filled with hatred when she added:  
  
"What I do with your wife, your people or the land is now completely my decision. And it will depend on you how I will treat them."  
  
"You won't ..." he started again, and this time he saw the attack coming and kicked the guard hard enough to make him stumble back, instinctively dodging the fist of the guard to his right holding him. He broke away suddenly, and using his elbow as a ram hit the first guard square in his face. He turned around, repelling the third man's hit, but the second soldier kicked him hard in the hollow of his knee, instantly bringing him down. Aragorn hit the ground with his bound hands, and the guard ended the attack by placing his boot between his shoulder blades.  
  
"At your command, Lady Saborian," the man said breathlessly.  
  
"Very well done, Lt. Medros." The Lady kept her chin high though for a moment she had been frightened. Aragorn shot a look up to her that made clear if he would have won she would not have lived to see mid-day. She regained her breath quickly. Her soldiers were well trained and should not have problems with a chained man. "Take him to his quarter. You know what to do."  
  
"Yes, Lady." The soldier nodded briefly to his two comrades, and they pulled Aragorn on his feet. At the door, after a last fierce look at the Lady of Ice the King of Gondor was gagged and hooded and escorted from the hall.  
  
* * *  
  
Still day 1, the castle  
  
Lt. Medros was a square-faced man in his late thirties, solidly built, and respected by the soldiers serving under his command. They knew as well as his friends that he had served Lady Saborian with undying devotion for years. So she did not only give him the order to bring her Lord Aragorn alive, but she also expected him to take care of the prisoner once he was arrested. Lt. Medros was willing to fulfil this task. Some said he could mentally mingle with the Lady of Ice and that she was a kind of witch who robbed him of his own will. The truth was that all Medros had ever wanted was to serve that noble lady. And she had always rewarded him generously.  
  
It was still early morning and only a few servants were on duty when Medros and his men led the struggling King down the stairways. Ignoring that he might hurt himself Aragorn fought the soldiers forcefully. It was clear he could not win, but Medros guessed that giving up was no option, and he bet with himself that it would take weeks to make him an easy prisoner. The men and women in the lower quarters only glanced at the foursome and considered the existence of this prisoner as unimportant. Lady Saborian was known as firm but just, and burglars thought twice before committing a crime on her land or within the walls of the castle. Not only few ended up as slaves for the strenuous work in the mines or on the fields belonging to the Lady. Medros thought, the servants were simply happy it did not concern them.  
  
At the end of the hallway a boy crossed the guards' way, and Medros pushed him aside like an unwelcome cat. They reached the lowest level of the eastern tower where the mouldy stench of dampness and human excretion made it hard to breathe. The guards moaned with disgust as they entered the tunnel, which was only lit by a few torches on their right side. To their left cells were built in the thick walls, each of them to lock with a heavy wooden door with bars in their upper third. They stopped in front of the first one. Voices rose from another row of cells on the other side of the tower, but here it was quiet. This row had been long deserted. Medros did not bother to look. His attention was fixed upon his new prisoner. He took off the hood and gag. The King's face was bathed in sweat.  
  
Aragorn locked eyes with him, and Medros stood firm. He let the King know that he would not give him any chance to escape or play a prank on him. And though he expected hatred, the King remained silent. No pleading, no accusation, no threat. The first guard opened the squealing door, and Medros entered the square little room first. Besides the additional shackles embedded in the wall he only found a sack of straw and a thin blanket on the bench, suspended with chains from the wall, an empty bucket, and a wooden mug with water on the stony floor. The bars at the little window, that was too small to even let a child slip through, did not move when he tested them. Satisfied with his inspection he let the other two guards escort the prisoner into his new home. Aragorn took in the details of the cell quickly, and behind the others Medros made for the door.  
  
"What about food?" the King asked in his back. His voice was low but bore a superiority that Medros hated at once. "And the handcuffs? Or are you so insecure that locking up that door will not be enough to keep your treason secret?" Another eye contact that lasted longer than necessary.  
  
Medros rammed the lock into its place, a deafening sound echoing within the thick walls. It was a clear show of force, and the soldier waited for a reaction. He got none. Aragorn just waited, unimpressed.  
  
"Step closer," Medros ordered in a harsh tone. The King stretched out his hands to the bars. The Lieutenant squinted and instead of opening the cuffs he tore off the silver and green brooch the King wore on his tunic. "I do not think you need this in here." Only then he pulled out a key on a silver chain under his cuirass to unlock the cuffs. The prisoner let the metal shackles fall, but the belt around his waist, on which they were fastened, stayed in place. "You will not leave the cell without them." Medros stuffed the key-chain back under his clothing, and though he knew the prisoner could not escape he felt as if he had lost a fight. With a last look he turned on his heels and left the dungeon, heading back to the life of the castle and, finally, beer, food, and his wife.  
  
Lady Saborian sat in her favourite chair near the big fireplace in her private study. She had sent messengers to her followers, who were already on the way to meet her or stayed in the castle, but told them nothing about the successful mission. She wanted to enjoy this victory to the full. Behind closed eyelids she recalled the moment the King had been presented to her, and, again, she was lifted with joy and satisfaction, and now she allowed herself a complacent smile. With her right hand she played lazily with a long curl of her brown hair while she held a goblet of wine with her left. Right now she seemed to fly around the room – a feeling of so pure delight she wanted it to last the whole night.  
  
More than two years ago she had changed her house in Minas Tirith for the castle of her ancestors. She had not lived a simple life since then. Her son, Sadur, had been a young boy when she had told him that once he would be the Steward of Gondor. When Sadur turned twenty, Denethor had apologised, but made clear that Sadur would never be regarded a legal successor to the throne. She had loved Denethor and his rejection was a greater humiliation than she could bear. No argument was a success; she could not change the Steward's decision. They could not marry since the Lady's husband was missing for long years, and Sadur was assumed to be his child. Denethor, sincerely devoted to Gondor, could not let a bastard take the throne, even though he himself would not want Faramir to be his successor. Filled with disappointment turning into anger the more she thought about it, she left the White City with her son to avoid contact with Denethor. During these years living in her self induced exile she had taught her son that he should never take anything for granted. She had encouraged him as a very young man to become a soldier, and she was proud to witness his skills in tournaments and to hear about his bravery in the battle against the army of Mordor.  
  
Her lightness turned to stunned horror when she learned that the heir to the throne had returned. Aragorn led the army into the battle on the Pelennor Fields, and, after the destruction of Sauron, was proclaimed King. With other noble men from Gondor she had attended the coronation. Among all the cheers she was filled with an overwhelming sense of outrage. She could not believe that the Ranger Aragorn, who had been far away for more than twenty years, had suddenly returned to become the ruler of Gondor. For so long Denethor and his men had been left alone to fight the dark lord. She himself had seen the efforts Denethor had undertaken to keep the eastern border safe. And now the noble and hard working Steward was dead, and a man she had not known before took the place her son should have taken.  
  
Her hatred grew, but alone, she knew, she would not succeed, but spend the rest of her life in prison or, worse, be killed by the King's companions. Her feelings of emptiness and forced standstill agreement changed when she met Noratis and L'Adarac, who thought the same way she did, even if for other reasons. Three other noble men of the old days joined their conspiracy. They all had lost because of the death of Denethor and the new laws of the King, and were eager for a course of action instead of tolerating the ruler. In their private meetings Lady Saborian had never uttered a word how she would handle the 'removal' of the King or that she would send Sadur to Minas Tirith as soon as possible.  
  
Lady Saborian smiled in the near darkness. She had accomplished what the King's foes had only talked about behind closed doors. Tomorrow she would show them how a woman solved problems while they only exchanged grim words to no avail.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 1, Minas Tirith  
  
Lady Arwen had a feeling of uneasiness. Strangeness. A sense of growing doom. Something she had not felt for months – not since the war against Sauron was over and her beloved husband had been called King. Since then they had lived the happy life they had always dreamt of – full of loving words and embraces. Nearness. With every breath she had inhaled the sweetness of Aragorn's presence. And though he had to leave her frequently to take care of the Kingdom he had always returned within two or three days, and within the hours of his absence she had felt him wherever he was. She simply knew that he was well.  
  
Now this feeling was gone, but she could not tell precisely what had happened. She reached out for him, tried to restore the mental bonding that made her relationship so special, but failed.  
  
Restless she stood up, walked across the patio and into the garden. Cold wind caught her hair and she squinted against the almost white sun. It would be winter soon. But the cold came from within. She told herself that it might have other reasons, but none seemed plausible. She feared that her husband was hurt. But even then, she thought, she had been able to reach out for his mind, bring him back to the light, give him strength when he himself had had none left.  
  
She bowed her head and shivered. Never before since her father and all of her kin had left Middle Earth had she felt so lonely. Now she knew what he had meant. She would live long enough to see the earth change, see people die and their children, too. She would live to grieve all the time and never be happy again. For a moment the emptiness filled her completely. Tears ran over her cheeks, fell on the grass to her feet, but then – for just a brief moment, no more than a bird's flapping of wings, she felt him, a distant, sorrowful feeling. Then it was gone.  
  
Arwen raised her head and with closed eyes tried to find Aragorn again. He was alive – and for all she knew he was in pain. And her loneliness seemed to echo in his mind. He was somewhere in a dark place, but she could not determine where. Arwen shivered.  
  
She turned, lifted the hem of her dress and hurried back into the house.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 1 - Ithilien  
  
The road had been long and distressful at the beginning, but now when the quarrels were settled, he felt rewarded and at ease. He had sent his men on ahead to enjoy once more the peaceful quietness of the land where, not so long ago, only war had ruled. Not all of the land had been restored yet, and he knew that work lay ahead of him, but for the moment he rode in silence, not bothered by bitter thoughts of the past or sorrow of the presence. He listened to the singing of the birds, the rustling of the last leaves of autumn, and the river's melody down below the cliffs. Remembering the dangerous years that lay behind him and had left scars on his mind and body he cherished the more that the destruction of Sauron had brought freedom and happiness to Middle Earth.  
  
Faramir leant back in the saddle, breathing the crisp fresh air. It was already cold, winter had sent his forerunner. In the morning the leaves on the ground had already been covered with ice crystals, and still he did not feel warm. But in spite of the cold night he had endured he felt light- hearted. He would return to Eowyn, his beautiful wife. His expression softened when he thought about her. Eowyn had become more precious to him than any wealth a man or King could have given to him. His love for her was so deep and honest that it almost hurt. He regretted that King Théoden had not lived to see his niece happy again, but Éomer, now King of Rohan, had finally put his sister's hand into that of the Prince of Ithilien. Faramir could close his eyes and see that moment again. Silently he smiled.  
  
He was about to spur his horse when he heard the noise of breaking twigs, accompanied by rustling of leaves. Just once, but he was instantly alarmed and halted. A part of him said there would be no danger, could not be, for all enemies had been defeated, and peace had returned to the land. But the other part, that of a soldier, told him to be cautious. During the war every carelessness had been dangerous, and he was unable to quiet his instincts. His pulse sped up. Watchful and tense he dismounted and bound the horse to a nearby branch. He hid behind the tree for a moment, waiting, watching. No more movement. No more sounds but the waters of the Anduin below. Using the cover of bushes and trees to get closer, he circled the area silently. He had to hurry. If there were somebody hidden he would become nervous if the Prince did not return to his mare.  
  
Faramir squatted behind a bush still green with thorny leaves. Four feet in front of him he could see parts of dark brown cloth and a darker hood. A quiver hung over the left shoulder. The person had positioned himself where he could overlook the way Faramir had been riding. And in his hand he could see the end of a bow. With his sword drawn he slowly approached the figure, careful to avoid the twigs on the soft soil. He made the last step, almost in the position to grab the man's cloak and pull him when the man spun around. He had waited for him! Grabbed the sword arm, hammered it to the ground. Faramir lost the grip, dropped it. Suddenly a knife shone in the man's left hand while he shoved away the sword with his foot. Faramir jumped back, drew his own knife, ready to fight. The man's face was hidden deep in the hood; Faramir could not see his eyes.  
  
"Listen, I don't want to fight you!" Grunting the enemy attacked, the knife shot forward. Faramir evaded, got closer to the cliff behind him. He heard the river fifteen feet below. "Who are you?" Another step forward, quick, determined. The man was tall and fast, his skills and movement flawless. Faramir dodged another hit, tried to hurt the man's left arm, disable him, but failed. The attacker but used his forward movement to stab his right upper arm, jumped back quickly, out of reach. Faramir groaned, renewed the grip on his knife. No time to hesitate. He spun around, blocking the attacker's knife with his left arm. Simultaneously the man punched him in the face, making him dizzy. Another blow. Faramir stumbled backward. His right arm was numb and cold. He changed the knife to his left hand, threw himself forward, away from the slippery stones behind him. The opponent toppled over, Faramir upon him, breathing heavily. Still the knife in the man's hand, threatening. Faramir tried to withhold it from his head with his right hand, but was too weak. Another scratch on his forearm. The enemy threw him off his body, kicked him hard in the stomach. Faramir slid over the rocks, coughing, trying to regain his breath. He shook his head to get a clear vision. Looked up. The enemy's knife was above his breast! He rolled to the side. Blade met stone. The attacker cursed under his breath. Faramir got on his feet. The same moment the man swung his legs around, robbed him of balance. He fell backwards on his right shoulder and arm, reached the rim of the cliff, slid over. Pain rushed through his body. Instinctively he tried to grab a hold, tried to stop his fall. His hands only found sharp stones. He cut his palms, could not hold any longer. For a second he saw the dark face of the enemy above him.  
  
Then he fell.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 2, the castle  
  
Lady Saborian's maid of honour was an eager and swift woman in her forties, round-faced and round at her mid-section. She came from a well- known and reliable family, but the Lady esteemed her high because of her discretion. Never had any story left the private rooms, and so the Lady trusted her with secrets. And even if it would have been otherwise Nila must have noticed the joyful expression on Lady Saborian's face in the morning. For the last two weeks the Lady had been restless and nervous. Now the strain was replaced by a smile and friendly words. Quick as always Nila took fresh clothing out of the big cupboard, displayed it on the bed and waited if her choice was accepted.  
  
"It will be a special morning, Nila," the Lady said and breathed deeply, returning from the window. Her face was almost shining when she smiled. "The red one will be much more... fitting."  
  
"Of course, my Lady." Nila changed the dresses, helped the Lady with the underwear and waited silently for the news.  
  
"Did you hear anything about a new prisoner in the castle?"  
  
Nila lifted her head to face the Lady, binding the last bow of the garment.  
  
"Yes, my Lady. A servant said that a man was brought down to the dungeon. Yesterday morning. Some had seen the soldiers and Lt. Medros arrive. They had the prisoner – a rather tall man - bound to a horse with rope." She turned to reach for the dress. "And he was hooded, they say. But they did not say why."  
  
"Nothing else?" Nila shook her head and hold the dark red velvet dress so the Lady could pull it upon her shoulders. "And what was that servant's speculation who he was?"  
  
"A poacher."  
  
Lady Saborian laughed and stifled it immediately. Nila closed the hooks and eyes and stepped back. Her face was blank.  
  
"That's right. He was caught with a deer he had just shot. - Did you see him?"  
  
"No, my Lady." Nila bowed down again to close the fine leather shoes the Lady had chosen.  
  
"Tell me if you hear anything new."  
  
"Of course, my Lady."  
  
When the maid finished her work the Lady walked over to the mirror. Although almost forty-nine she did not look her age. Men had always swarmed round her after her husband had been declared missing, but only Denethor had been of any interest for her. She had loved him honestly, and though he had disappointed her she missed him. She had had a good life with him. She did not believe that his mind had been clouded when he committed suicide and she repulsed the mere thought that he had almost burnt Faramir alive. Those were jealous lies to impair his immaculate reputation. He had devoted his life to fight the armies of the enemy, and by the lives of many men the borders of the other kingdoms had been kept safe. It was only his merit that Sauron's Uruk-hai had not swarmed the lands earlier. The Lady shivered by the thought of the ugly creatures the soldiers had told her about.  
  
Finally she was satisfied with her appearance and turned away from the mirror. When Nila opened the door for her she could hear L'Adarac's loud and melodic voice through the cold corridor. 'He should have become a singer,' she mused, and looked out of the window into the bright light of this morning in fall. A weight was lifted from her chest. For the first time in six months she felt relieved. She felt great. The long wait had been for good. Everything she had planned was fulfilled to her satisfaction. She now only waited for one man to return, and he was not due for a week.  
  
When she entered the great hall over the broad flight of stairs she dropped the thought of her guest to be a singer. L'Adarac was tall but stout, his fingers seemed to be blown up, and his face had not changed for the better since he let his dark brown beard grow full and long. His hair was thick and of the same colour, and though he was a noble man his manners were not.  
  
"Ah, my Lady!" he greeted her loudly with outstretched arms as if to embrace her. Lady Saborian halted her steps to welcome him with a smile, but did not fall into his arms. It would have been improper to even touch the man, and with a huff he let the arms fall to his sides, pointing to the table. "Very nice you are coming. I already helped myself with the wine. No servants around here today, hum? Do you want some?" She shook her head. L'Adarac was not annoyed by her restrictive behaviour. She was a woman, and women were known to have affectations. The lord was only interested in what she might have accomplished. When the messenger had arrived yesterday afternoon he had nothing more to tell than that the Lady awaited him. He had been excited all day and night. "Do we expect the others, too?" he continued while she stepped down and took a look around as if the hall had changed since she had last seen it. She did not answer L'Adarac's question. Her mind was travelling back to the early morning when she had instructed Medros in her room. She was also informed that the King had been quiet during the night. Because of his concerned look she had asked if he expected difficulties with the prisoner.  
  
"He will always be difficult," Medros had uttered slowly, cautiously. "We can handle that. But- Are you sure you want to show him to the others?"  
  
"Yes. Are you afraid they could betray me?" Medros had not answered but avoided her stare, which was enough. "They are bound to me in many ways, Lt. Medros, and no one will be so bold as to help the King to escape."  
  
Medros had bowed and left.  
  
Now Noratis entered from the south side and greeted her submissively. Opposite to L'Adarac he knew what was expected from him and was willing to oblige. He had been in the Lady's dept for a long time. She did not mention it, but let him feel it every time they met. And if submission led him back to Minas Tirith, back to the White City and the life he had had there long ago, he would be grateful and do what was necessary to support a success. At least, whatever left his head on his shoulders.  
  
"Now, Noratis," Lady Saborian smiled at him, "I thought you might want to be present this morning."  
  
"Has anything important happened?"  
  
"Do not look worried. You will see soon. Sit down and drink some wine."  
  
"Very well, my Lady." He sat, and poured himself some water. His mouth was dry, and he emptied the first cup greedily. He had sat here before with the other men – those who had been loyal to Denethor. They called themselves the 'Congregation of the Old Days' and laughed and drank wine together. Noratis wondered if they knew that it was high treason what they had spoken about on those evenings. Noisily and exaggerating they all had complained about their losses and what would change to the better for them if the King were gone. They had never mentioned a way to do that. Never developed a plan. Noratis judged by the look of Lady Saborian that she had done more than talking. But who could imprison him for talking idle talk while he was too drunk to spell his name correctly? Nevertheless, he feared that he would come to know things he would have preferred to avoid. He told himself that he could only win when the King was gone, but what happened if anyone found out? The King had had a wizard, elves and a dwarf as companions with him on the day of his inauguration. Who could stand against them?  
  
Blotting the sweat on his forehead he glanced at Lady Saborian who welcomed two other men whom he knew by their faces, Tebenor and Radures. Both men were into their forties, tall and strong though the time of peace had made them soft around the middle. The Lady was pleased about their coming and asked them, too, to sit down before she sent a guard out of the hall. Noratis knew that they usually showed off with their battle experience, but he had seen none of them fighting. Noratis smiled wearily. He had lived a good life in Minas Tirith – as well as the others now present. They had not been all too noble to cheat and use every advantage - even if it was illegal - to gain wealth, but the coronation of Aragorn had been followed swiftly by new laws and their rigorous realisation. Noratis bitterly remembered the morning when he had to leave the city to avoid arrest. Lady Saborian had helped him to escape, and he had tried to convince himself that she was doing it out of friendship. But the Lady had made it very clear that she expected a reward – not now and maybe not in a month, but at a time she would define.  
  
The men drank wine and ate a second breakfast while they were exchanging news from their lands and complained about the damage the war had caused. Noratis' hands clutched the goblet. His heart beat faster, and he could hardly answer the friendly welcome one of the men gave him. He thought about Faramir. The Lady had once uttered that she wanted to see Sadur as Steward, but as far as Noratis knew Denethor had never officially claimed Sadur his son. How would she convince the people that Sadur had the right to rule Gondor? Would she go as far as to kill Faramir to reach this goal? Or did she count on Faramir to stand aside for Sadur's benefit?  
  
Noratis felt sick. Years ago he had made a big mistake in his life – more than mere cheating -, and, as it seemed, he would pay a high price for it.  
  
The Lady waited. She was almost as excited as the day before. Then she had not known what the guards would bring from their long journey. Now she would just be surprised by what Medros had made out of her instructions. The men were talking with each other, drinking wine or water like they had done many times before. She could not join the conversation. It seemed unimportant in the face of the coming event. Minutes rolled by, stretched to an hour. She took a look around to make sure that no servant was present and that all doors were firmly shut.  
  
"Now, my Lady, what is so overwhelming that I had to leave my cosy bed last night?" L'Adarac asked so loud it could be heard two rooms down the corridor.  
  
"Be patient," she simply said.  
  
He snorted, "It was a woman, too, I had to leave!" and the others laughed, but she did not listen. Her eyes and mind were fixed on the flight of stairs leading down to the main hall. She recognised Lt. Medros against the sunlight pouring through the window behind him. He had chosen two guards to accompany the valuable prisoner, but it would not have been necessary.  
  
The King did not only wear the same gag and handcuffs but shackles around his bare ankles and a collar with a chain that ended in Medros' hands. She held her breath. Her followers stopped talking, stood up, and stared at the person who slowly walked down the steps. The guard on his right drew up his nose and looked miserable while the man following the King grimaced in pain. But Aragorn had paid for his resistance. His lower lip and his nose were bleeding, and on his cheekbone a dark purple bruise showed. With the narrow chain between his ankles rattling they reached the last step. Aragorn kept his chin high and locked eyes with each of the men gaping at him. Lady Saborian would have been disappointed if he had not kept his dignity even under these circumstances.  
  
"I do not believe this!" L'Adarac exclaimed shaking his head. "My Lady, you are... marvellous!" He suddenly applauded, the others joined, laughing as if they had been granted a pound of mithril.  
  
"A great day, Lady Saborian," Tebenor agreed, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Radures nodded, still too overwhelmed to form words.  
  
"You did the right thing," L'Adarac continued and seemed willing to slap the Lady's shoulder. She side-stepped him and concentrated on Noratis, who had left his chair, but stood like someone struck by icy water. She frowned. Noratis had been the first one affected by the changes in law, and she had expected him to cheer as loud as the others. "What will you do with him?"  
  
L'Adarac's question broke the eye contact the Lady had held with Noratis. She inhaled and looked from her follower to the King.  
  
"He will stay here."  
  
Aragorn bit on the leather, infuriated and hard to hold. He made a step forward, and Medros reacted instantly and pulled the chain, forced him to step back between the guards.  
  
"You really got him under control," Tebenor laughed, and the fat man assisted,  
  
"Yes, he seems to be more like a cave troll I was told about! You were right to collar him! He will need a lot of education to behave properly." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Well, if you want to have him in your service." He was so amused by his joke that his whole body was shaking with laughter. The Lady smiled, her eyes fixed on the King. Blood ran into his beard, and his eyes lay deep in their sockets. His leather coat and boots had been taken away, and the rest of his clothing did not warm him. But at the moment he was too angry to feel the cold.  
  
"Yes, maybe some teaching will be necessary. I will see to that."  
  
"You are a remarkable woman, Lady Saborian," Tebenor praised loudly. "Come on, my friends, let us have a goblet of wine!" He turned and filled the goblets, handed one to each of them. Noratis looked down at the light brown liquor, raised it then to the toast, "On our Lady Saborian, the most determined woman in Gondor!" and gulped the wine. It tasted sour, even more so as he thought of what the Lady had done – high treason. The word ran amok in his head. He was an accomplice! When the Lady glanced at him again he tried to look pleased and at ease. He was in her debt. He had no choice. And maybe ... with the King gone he might be able to return to the White City. It was a thought worth to hold on to.  
  
The cheers went on, loud talking followed about what the men could do and had to prepare for their return to Minas Tirith. Neither one of them mentioned Faramir or Sadur, who was merely a name and a face to them. Lady Saborian let the King wait the whole time, made him listen what his opponents planned. He tried to stand his ground, get himself under control, but she could see that his anger did not subside. Let loose he would rip her guests apart. 'Much like a cave troll,' she thought and took another sip of wine, smiling.  
  
Medros was worried, and that not only because of the presence of the Congregation members. He did not trust them to keep the secret, and if it had been his decision he had never brought the King to the castle. But his reserved proposal to kill the King to avoid any connection with the crime was dismissed at once. Now his sweaty hands still held fast to the chain and he allowed himself only brief moments to let his look wander around the room. He should not be nervous. The prisoner was secured and would not dare another false step if he did not want to strangle himself. But still through every move of the chain he could feel the unnerving restlessness of this man. He wanted to jump into action, free himself, kill the Lady and the guests – after he had finished with the guards. He was an enemy Medros had not crossed before. The Lieutenant knew the famous stories of the King's fight against the Nazgul and the Uruk-hai at Helms Deep. He knew that the King had seen more battles in his life than a hundred other soldiers combined. Looking back he knew that only the simple fact of carelessness had made it possible for his men to overwhelm the party at night and put shackles on the King. The fights against the army of the Dark Lord were over – evil had seemed so far away.  
  
Medros looked down upon the chain. It seemed to vibrate in his hands, just as if the energy of his prisoner was slowly building up. He tried to figure out what the King had planned. Would he tear at the chain to break free? Just to demonstrate that he was not defeated? The King watched the men proclaiming their victory, but Medros was afraid they were celebrating too early. He had tried to convince the Lady that he could handle the prisoner, but he knew better.  
  
The King had clearly shown his strength when Medros and the guards had entered the cell. He had fought with desperate force willing to use the slightest chance to escape. And it had been a good one, Medros had to admit. The first guard had caught a fist straight in the face the moment he got close enough. Both the second guard and Medros had to combine their efforts with a third guard to bring the King down. Medros had knocked him out, and within these seconds, when he was lying unconscious on the floor, they had shackled and collared him. The guards and Medros had been sweating all over, and they did not wish to count the bruises and scratches they had. 'This will not work a second time,' his friend, Bayonor, had said. Medros agreed silently. The King was no easy broken prisoner who sat in his cell with bowed head waiting for the next command to come. As long as he could he would fight them viciously.  
  
Medros' hands held the chain tighter. An hour had passed, and still the Lady had not given him a sign that the prisoner could be brought back to his cell. Medros felt sweat tickling down his forehead. The guards' faces showed the same uneasiness, stepping from one foot to the other, still remembering the incident in the cell. Medros calmed them with a confident look. He hoped it would soon be over.  
  
Against the wish of Medros Lady Saborian still enjoyed playing with her victory. She looked at Aragorn from time to time, ate little, drank little. She could not tell what she expected – she herself had condemned Aragorn to keep quiet. At last, before she could order Medros to take the prisoner back to the dungeon L'Adarac stood up, his face reddened by too much wine and excitement.  
  
"Why not make him look like a prisoner?" he slurred, drawing his dagger.  
  
"What are you up to?" the Lady asked cautiously.  
  
L'Adarac grinned and brandished with the weapon, stepping close to the King.  
  
"Is he not dressed too fine for the dunge... dungeon?"  
  
"What happens with him is my decision, L'Adarac," the Lady snarled, and the noble man fixed his glassy eyes upon her, still holding the dagger in his right hand. "Step away from him."  
  
L'Adarac frowned.  
  
"The L... Lady wants him for herself?" A sarcastic giggle escaped him. "And we," he continued, suddenly dead earnest, "just pay the price for treason when we get caught? - No, you cannot expect that." He turned and raised the dagger.  
  
In the blink of an eye Aragorn snatched the weapon from L'Adarac's hand, turned, hit Medros' arm with one swift movement. The chain rattled to the floor. Medros cried out. L'Adarac stumbled back, fell over his feet and sat hard on the floor. The guards moved in. The tight restraints did not allow a lot of movement, but when the two men attacked, Aragorn hit the first with the long blade in his side. The second evaded while Medros bent down to pick up the chain. Blood dripped from his arm. The first guard hit the stairs groaning. The men at the table watched in shock, unable to help. The King attacked the second guard, swung around as he felt the chain pull tight again. He brought his right ellbow over the chain and tore it from Medros' blood-slippery hands. The Lieutenant stumbled forward, yelped in pain, connected with the shiny blade and narrowly escaped a second slash. Only his cloth was cut. The King spun around, and Medros put his foot on the chain on the stones, not willing to let go. The second guard hit Aragorn with his fist at the temple, and when the King was stunned for a second, hit him again. Medros threw himself forward, toppling Aragorn over. Grunting they both hit the ground. The noble men retreated behind the table while Lady Saborian was unable to move. Aragorn drew up his legs to kick Medros in his groin, could not hit him hard enough. He tried to turn the dagger to Medros' face, but the second guard used both hands to wrest it from his fist.  
  
"Knock him out!" Medros pressed under his breath.  
  
That moment the guard held the dagger in his hand, grimacing. Breathless he moved backward, and sat on the lowest step for a moment. His hands showed minor cuts, and it was clear that the fight should not have lasted any longer. Medros nodded in approval and with still slippery hands grabbed the chain. Slowly he got to his feet. L'Adarac had hidden under the table, came out and, getting up, smoothed his clothes again. Medros looked down upon his opponent, out of breath and shaken by the close defeat. He wished he could lock him up and never let out again. His right arm throbbed with pain, made him dizzy. At his feet was a puddle of blood. He pulled on the chain with more force than necessary.  
  
"Get up!" he rasped and pulled again. The King coughed. His breast heaved with every breath, and he glared at his captor. He even tried to kick him, letting his opponent know that the defeat was only short-lived. Medros had never been so angry. This had been close to a disaster. Bayonor on the steps still held tight to his side. Blood had oozed out through his fingers; it must be a bad wound. Medros' anger grew when he looked at the drunken noble man. L'Adarac blotted his forehead with a handkerchief and nodded in Medros' direction.  
  
"Very well done, young man, very well." He sounded like he would praise the Lieutenant for a complicated trick.  
  
Medros exchanged a look with the Lady. She was pale, almost as white as the lace of her dress, and for her he could not keep quiet. With another brutal tug at the chain the King slowly got to his feet.  
  
"Next time, Lord L'Adarac, leave your weapons at home where they can do no harm."  
  
The second guard gave the dagger back though it seemed he would prefer to use it. L'Adarac put it back into its sheath and turned to Lady Saborian, fuming:  
  
"He does not have the right to speak to me like this! You have to..."  
  
The Lady raised a hand to silence him.  
  
"He saved your life," she said flatly. "And he is right. - Very well done, Lt. Medros." She locked eyes with Aragorn whose breath had not yet calmed. "It seems wise to keep the prisoner under closer control... Make sure that his hands are bound behind his back the next time," she added for Medros, and there was no accusation in her voice. The Lieutenant nodded briefly. "Now take him back."  
  
"Yes, my Lady." Medros was relieved. He put the hood over Aragorn's head and led him out of the hall while the second guard helped his friend to get up. They both left and the party returned to the table, exchanged words of relieve and astonishment. They all looked startled by the force Aragorn had just shown. In the following silence Lady Saborian shook her head slightly.  
  
"Now you see that he is a threat." Noratis avoided her stare. "But we will take care of him. He will not get this kind of chance again." Her gaze wandered to L'Adarac who had poured himself another goblet of wine. He grumbled to himself and looked down at the oak table. "The King will be safe and well guarded within these walls. I will see to this."  
  
"What about Faramir?" Tebenor asked meeting her gaze directly. "When the King does not return, he will surely take the place of the Steward."  
  
"He will truly do that," she stated flatly.  
  
"In my humble opinion the situation for us..." He made a gesture meaning all men sitting at the table. "...will not improve with Faramir on the throne."  
  
"This has yet to be shown."  
  
"He will not reverse the laws," Radures went on, frowning. "So how should this be better for us? We are all... outlaws. In one way or the other."  
  
The Lady smiled a confident smile.  
  
"Let time tell us what happens."  
  
L'Adarac emptied his goblet and slammed it on the table.  
  
"Why did you not kill the King?" he asked, and it was the question they all had in mind. "You were right – he is a threat. As long as he lives. We just saw that." All eyes were fixed on Lady Saborian. She kept her chin high.  
  
"What I do with him is my decision. He does no longer rule Gondor – which was all that you wanted. And I guarantee that he will neither leave this castle nor that anyone will know about his existence."  
  
"But he is a threat!"  
  
"As I said: He will no longer be in your way. That is all you need to know."  
  
"But Faramir..."  
  
"Don't you listen, Lord L'Adarac? Wait." She glanced from one to the other and halted her stare on Noratis who forced himself to nod. "Right now it is imperative that no word leaves this castle that Aragorn is a prisoner here. Our return to the White City depends on our discretion. It is in the interest of us all that the King is held here for the winter. We will meet here occasionally and exchange news from the city. In spring we will decide when to act."  
  
She did not wait for any more questions. With a last friendly look at her conspirators she left the hall.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 2, the castle  
  
Medros' arm hurt like hell, but he had no time yet to check the wound. It would have to wait until the prisoner was behind bars again. He tore at the chain and made the man go faster though he stumbled frequently. He almost fell down the last stairs to the dungeon. Only his service to the Lady made Medros stop the fall. Some more bruises would not be bad, a broken neck would.  
  
He shoved him through the last corridor and into the cell. For a moment he saw a small figure alongside the wall. Within a second it was gone, and Medros did not bother to check.  
  
"You will not get another chance so easily," he muttered, his voice heavy with frustration. He had seen it coming. Somehow he had known that it would be a mistake to let the King remain in the hall for so long, to let him watch his opponents draw plans to their advantage. But sometimes the Lady was a gambler, and he was not in the position to contradict. He shook his head, and, after a pause and a reluctant look upon the hood he took the cloth off. Aragorn took a deep breath and shook his hair out of his sweaty face. Medros met the fierce look with determination. "As long as I command the guard this will have been your last try." He knew he could not impress the King, but he felt the urge to threaten him. "Even within this cell I will not take off the foot chains, and if it was not for my orders I would leave the rest of the chains as well." Medros opened the gag, and Aragorn spat it out.  
  
"These people in the hall – these noble men as they call themselves, they commit treason, Medros, and you know it! How can you serve them?"  
  
"Keep your tongue in check, prisoner, or the gag stays as well," Medros replied with constrained calmness, took the piece of leather and went outside to lock the door.  
  
The King looked at him through the bars.  
  
"What are your orders, Lt. Medros?" Medros hated the smooth and absolutely controlled voice of the King. It seemed as if the fight had taken place with another man. He pulled the key and told the King to step close to the bars. "What does Lady Saborian want?" Aragorn asked while the collar was removed. Medros did not answer. "It would be easier in many ways to kill me than to keep me prisoner. So, tell me, what is she up to?"  
  
Medros was tempted to say that he agreed with that and would have proposed it himself, but he merely squeezed his lips tight, opened the handcuffs and turned away from the cell.  
  
* * *  
  
Still day 2, the castle  
  
Medros headed for the first floor to get help for his wound and have a look after Bayonor. He found him lying on a bed. A woman helped the man to dress and left the room to fetch another bandage for Medros.  
  
"This L'Adarac is a fool!" the guard spat with suppressed anger. "How could he get so close to the-"  
  
"Don't say it," Medros warned with a look to the still open door. "As she said – no more people than necessary shall know who he is."  
  
"There are not so many who would recognize him, Medros. Who of these folks here have ever met the... that man? – But tell me, why does she want him alive?"  
  
"I do not know, Bayonor, and we should not ask. We are well paid for what we do. How do you feel?"  
  
"Like gored, what a question! That dagger is not made of thin air!" He continued to curse L'Adarac for his stupidity until the woman returned and bandaged Medros' arm. The gash was long but not too deep. The bleeding had stopped and warmth returned to it. The woman looked from Medros to Bayonor, but as no one started an explanation, she left them alone. "Again, my friend, tell me what's on her mind," the young guard insisted. "We should capture him, yes, but I thought that she just wanted to see him killed while she was present – or for any other reason that would lead to his death, but not that we should watch over him the whole time! This is dangerous! And not only because we will all hang for treason! This man is a cave troll. Did you remove the handcuffs?" Medros nodded. "You should not. Even without a knife his hands are deadly weapons. He will not give up, Medros, don't you see? We killed his companions and caged him up! He can almost pierce us with his stare!" Bayonor shivered severely.  
  
"Go to your quarter and take a rest," Medros advised.  
  
"He will always fight us. And you know that."  
  
Medros slapped him slightly on the shoulder.  
  
"It will not happen again."  
  
"Only when she gives the order to kill him – which would be wise."  
  
* * * 


	2. Chapter 2

Still Day 2, the castle  
  
Noratis listened to the chatter of Tebenor, Radures, and the loud rumbling of L'Adarac. He still felt sick. He had seen the fierce stare of Aragorn. Even in ten years – if they both lived as long – he would not have forgotten this look, and the King would remember his face among thousands. Noratis shivered so severely that wine spilled over his hand. He quickly put the goblet down on the table. His hands were shaking, and his face was white. The other men had not noticed yet, but he just waited for Tebenor, who sat next to him, to say a word about it. Tebenor still praised the Lady of Ice for her achievement, and the three men only saw the benefits of it. Or they preferred to leave out the gruesome truth. Noratis wanted to scream that they all would hang for treason, and that the chance of making it back to the White City was limited. In fact he would have felt better if the King was dead, but Lady Saborian had made herself clear: The King would stay here. Wasn't that a foolish thought? King Aragorn, son of Arathorn, last in the line of Numenor – to serve in the Lady's castle? He would have called her insane if he had dared. With the conversation in the background he imagined Lord Aragorn cleaning the dishes or serving at the table while Lady Saborian shared news with L'Adarac, who would ask for more wine and threaten the King with his dagger if he was not quick enough to oblige. 'Ridiculous!' He shook his head.  
  
"Now, Noratis, what makes you look so worried?" Tebenor finally asked. "You seem to carry a burden too heavy to bring home. Let us know what troubles you!"  
  
"It's of no importance," Noratis hurried to say. "I was just wondering how I will get back all my furniture to the city."  
  
Tebenor and Radures laughed so loud that the walls echoed back.  
  
"Yes, my friend, that really is an important question!" Tebenor slapped Noratis' shoulder soundly. "And... did you come up with a solution?"  
  
"I will... as soon as we can really pack."  
  
Tebenor's laughter stopped as if turned off.  
  
"Sure we will. Do you doubt that, Noratis? Then let us know why."  
  
"No, Lady Saborian thought well of the plan before it was executed." He felt like swimming in deep water. One minute more and he would drown. "It will work out for us. I am sure," he added to convince Radures and L'Adarac, too, who had stopped talking. They threw him an inquisitive look, and the noble man searched for words in his completely blank mind. "As long as we keep quiet about the... incident, we will return to the White City in good time." He cleared his throat. "In spring, or summer at last." Another slap from Tebenor, and Radures nodded,  
  
"Yes, that sounds better. For a moment I feared you could doubt our success."  
  
Noratis forced a smile on his face though as his doubts grew by the minute.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 6, Minas Tirith  
  
Arwen tried to sense her husband, repeatedly and with growing desperation. She outstretched her mental fingers to touch his soul, like in that moment when she had felt his pain. It seemed as if he had built a wall around himself – or that he was dead by now. She did not want to think about this possibility. Three days had passed since she had sent three soldiers into the forest where Aragorn had ridden with his friends. Every hour stretched to a day without a word from them or Aragorn. The wait unnerved her, and all the friends in Minas Tirith could not console her. She knew that her anxiety was probably nonsense, and that Aragorn would return within a few days. Maybe, she told herself, they had ridden further than they had intended to. The forests were full of strange magic even the elves did not always understand. It was a cold comfort.  
  
Against the setting sun a rider approached the hill as fast as his horse would run, raising dust behind him. They both sweat and were more than exhausted. She hurried down the hallway to greet him.  
  
The man dismounted, bowed to her, and caught his breath, while a servant led the foaming horse away.  
  
"Lady Arwen, I'm sorry to bring you bad news. We could not find Lord Aragorn, but the three men of his company are dead."  
  
Arwen's heart stopped suddenly, but she breathed deeply to regain her strength. She even held the tears back.  
  
"So he is not dead," she stated more to herself than to the man.  
  
"No, my Lady, not as far as I know."  
  
"No sign of him then?" Her voice trembled, and she was dismayed by her weakness.  
  
"There was a fight – four or five men against the King and his companions. But the traces were hard to read. A week old at least."  
  
"Where did the traces lead from there on?"  
  
"North. But we lost them in one of the streams and could not find them on the northern shore." He swallowed and looked at her miserably. "I'm sorry to bring such bad news."  
  
"It is not your fault. Thank you."  
  
"My Lady, if you wish us to, we will continue the search in all directions. We will find him."  
  
The convincing tone made her smile though she felt sick with sorrow.  
  
"Yes, I know that. Wait for your men and take a rest. I will let you know my decision."  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 6, the castle  
  
Vlohiri squatted in the farthest edge of the dungeon's corridor, pulling his jacket tight around his boney knees. In the shadow no one would see him. No one would find him, for the cells were all empty and quiet, and he was nothing more than a stone. He felt as cold as it, but the shivering was better than the ugly words the other kids used for him. He drew up his nose as quiet as he could and used the sleeve to stop the dripping. He also wiped away the stains from his tears. They were angry tears, and more were coming. He could not hold them back. He felt miserable, and the words still echoed in his mind. 'Scarecrow', 'bastard', 'son of the imbecile', and other nicknames he did not want to recall. The maids all called him 'Flea', though they would not say that it was because of his build, but because it was close to his real name. It was true that he was very slender for his age, had big thin-skinned hands, and a small face with big blue eyes, shining under a mass of unkempt, straw-colored hair, which generously covered his sticking-out ears. If the maids used his name wrong Vlohiri accepted it lying down, but the other boys... He could always feel their disgust. He put both hands over his small face as if this would stop the tears and the memory. But he knew the moment he went back upstairs it would start anew. So he sat there for half an hour longer for the others did not dare to get down here. It was a cold comfort that he was bolder than they were.  
  
His mother was a low-paid maid. She cleaned the hallways and rooms for the Lady and her companions, and though sometimes she recognized Vlohiri, most of the time she was absent-minded and seemed to live elsewhere, out of reach for Vlohiri and his misery. He did not know who his father was. He tried to convince himself that maybe his father had died in one of the great battles against the ruler of the land in the East. But the image did not soothe him. There was no grown-up person who would tell those other kids to back off. So he had no one to turn to. He was alone.  
  
Again the tears streamed down his cheeks freely.  
  
The dim light floating through the small windows in the cells and his rumbling stomach reminded him that dinner was close. He rose, stretched his limbs, and slowly, his shoulders sagging, made his way back to the wider corridor and the staircase.  
  
"Why did you cry?" a soft voice asked when he passed the last cell in that row.  
  
Startled Vlohiri jumped to the side, pressed himself against the hard stone, breathing heavily. He did not feel the pain in his left arm where he had hit a sharp stone. With wide eyes and open mouth he tried to see through the bars of that last door. His heart pumped in his eardrums, and he was afraid. Most of the time the prisoners in the cells either yelled at him or ignored him, constricted to their own misery. That was why he had preferred this long deserted tunnel. Now he did not know if he should stay or run.  
  
A chain rattled and a bearded face showed at the bars, illuminated by the torch that stuck above the boy's head. Grey eyes looked at him. Vlohiri coughed, still stood pressed with his back against the wall, unable to move. He was caught between fear and curiosity. Frowning he shivered and stared at the man, ready to break into a run if the door suddenly opened.  
  
"Why did you cry?" the man repeated, and his voice sounded so different from those of the other prisoners – so friendly and sympathetic - that Vlohiri's fear stepped down one level. But he was still cautious. The maids had forbidden him to go to the dungeon, but as with the most orders he had ignored it. He had been everywhere in this castle – inside and outside. He knew all the tunnels, the secret ways, and he could even climb the outer walls, at least parts of it. But he remembered that the maids had said that all prisoners were extremely dangerous and would kill him, for they could reach through the bars and strangle him, just because they were angry about all men living free. So Vlohiri stood three feet away from the bars, still eyeing the prisoner, calculating if the man's arm would reach him. At the same time he felt like answering, like saying something – after all, he was out here and almost ten years old! Why should he be afraid? But there was not enough saliva in his mouth to form words. A small, weary smile came from the prisoner. "What is your name, lad?"  
  
Vlohiri swallowed dryly. He still breathed heavily though he told himself again that he was safe. The wooden doors were heavy, and the padlock closed it for good. And the man's look was not threatening either. He had not even raised his hands to the bars. 'He is a prisoner,' he contradicted himself. 'He must have done something terrible.' In his mind the vision of gruesome murders and floors full of blood formed. The soldiers had told many awful stories when they were drunk. With closed eyes he shook his head in disgust.  
  
"You don't want to tell me your name?" the friendly voice asked. Vlohiri opened his eyes again, not knowing what the man referred to. "You shook your head."  
  
"Ah..." Vlohiri started, then frowned, troubled by what he should say. Should he speak with the prisoner at all? The maids would say, no, not a word, but he decided otherwise. "Flea," he whispered, then, after he cleared his throat, "Vlohiri," he corrected himself and stood more erect. "My mother called me Vlohiri." He did not know that, but it sounded good.  
  
"So, Vlohiri, as your mother called you, I am Aragorn."  
  
Vlohiri felt his lips form a smile, one that the prisoner returned. Then, in a sudden realization, the boy broke into a run, and did not stop until he reached the kitchen.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 6, the castle, evening  
  
The cook glanced at him with her 'You are pure trouble, boy'-look, but in opposite to the other maids she was a generous woman and gave him a plate of warm fish and bread. He thanked her, and while she prepared more plates for the soldiers and the workers in the castle, she asked him with her warm and lenient voice:  
  
"Where have you been, Flea? Up in the south tower again? Or in the dungeon where you truly should not be?" She waved a ladle at him, frowning. "The Lady of Ice ordered that no one except the guards may go down there. Did you hear that, Flea? No one." Vlohiri nodded chewing, gulped down a mug of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So, fine, where did you go? I told you I needed help here tonight. I could not find you."  
  
Vlohiri blushed. He had forgotten! Immediately he felt guilty. When his mouth was empty, he looked at the cook and said,  
  
"I'm sorry, Narana, I'm so sorry," and she was good-hearted enough to forgive him.  
  
"All right, then, son, you will do the dishes. So eat up!" She turned to the oven again, smiling to herself. "Why did you disappear from earth?" she asked a few minutes later, when the boy put dirty plates in the dishwater. He kept his look down as if he had to concentrate not to break anything. "Flea?"  
  
"Had to," he muttered.  
  
"You had to jump off the earth? Who was behind you? A wild boar?"  
  
It sounded like a joke, but to Vlohiri a wild boar would have been less threatening than the boys of the other maids and guards, who swarmed the castle's northern parts.  
  
"No. The boys," he whispered reluctantly.  
  
"Oh, Flea, you have to get along together. They could be your friends if you would not hide all the time." Vlohiri kept his mouth shut. She did not understand that he hid because of the boys and the nicknames they used for him. She was twenty years older than him and would never be called names. He knew that. Narana was well respected among the personnel, though she was slightly fat and had a round face with freckles all over, and a nose that was as round as a mushroom. "You are too much alone." Still he bowed to avoid her friendly stare. He thought about his mother who would sit somewhere with a bucket and a scrubbing brush in her hands, not knowing what to do with it. He had found her several times in a corridor, frowning about the towel in her hand, shaking her head and walking away suddenly. He could not talk to her normally. She would look at him puzzled, talk gibberish, and return to some place else, already forgotten that Vlohiri existed. In those moments he felt desperate. He needed his mother and her help! He was just a boy! And when the other, stronger boys found him a single word was enough to make him cry and run away. "Don't forget the bowls," Narana reminded him, and he quickly fetched them from the big table. "So, now, tell me for real, where have you been?"  
  
Vlohiri scrubbed the first bowl heartily as if he wanted to wipe off the pattern. He knew that he could trust her, but had she not said that the dungeon was forbidden – for everyone? How could he then tell her about his encounter with this prisoner, who had been so different from all that scum he had seen before? (Even that would upset her more than he wanted to and get a tirade going against him.)  
  
"South tower," he said and felt uneasy for his lie, but he saw no other way. He vividly remembered the prisoner's – 'Aragorn's' – face and his soft voice. For the first time in his life a man had not treated him like air. The soldiers considered him a burden and shoved him away, and the maids always gave him work when they saw him. (Of course, that, too, was a reason to prefer invisibility in the castle.)  
  
"I told you a hundred times," Narana instantly answered, "you should not go there. It's not safe. Some stone might fall on you! And no more climbing outside, do you hear me? Last time I saw you way up there on the eastern tower my heart stood still."  
  
"All right," he gave in, not meaning it. Where was the fun within these cold walls if every little adventure was forbidden? And he had done harder climbing than the eastern tower.  
  
"I hope so, Flea. Now, off you go! You did enough."  
  
"Thank you, Narana," he said happily, "the dinner was great as always."  
  
"Oh, don't try to charm me!" she laughed, and with a smile Vlohiri left the kitchen.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 8, Minas Tirith  
  
Arwen woke from a nightmare that left her shaking like a leaf.  
  
She had seen her husband in a place bare of any light, surrounded by thick, grey walls, caging him in. It was quiet there, as if the place lay deep down in the earth. The walls moved in on him, making the prison smaller and smaller with every breath, until there was no space left. She heard her husband cry for release, but there was no one to rescue him.  
  
But the images that woke her gave no indication where this place was, and though she hoped Aragorn would not suffer such awful fate, it was the first glimpse of him she had for a week.  
  
She rose and dressed, knowing she would not sleep again this night. She walked over to the window. The night was star-lit and cold, and she warmed herself with a long woolen cloak. She could see the torches at the entrance to the Kings' quarters. Two soldiers were changing guard, talking, laughing. The man leaving slapped the others' shoulder and headed home. Lady Arwen wished she could turn back time and bring her husband back. For the first time in both their lives they had openly kissed each other, enjoyed company and conversation, meals and meetings with friends. 'Why is happiness so short-lived?' Her dreams had told her Aragorn was alive, but she had not known where to send the soldiers to search for him. The captors had taken him north, and so she had asked the soldiers to follow all leads and ask the peasants living in the northern part of Gondor if they had seen anyone. To enlarge the area she had sent one messenger to Faramir and a second to Éomer in Rohan. She hoped that both would be home, but it would take them at least two weeks to gather a group of men and start a search.  
  
The wait from day to endless day was hard, but she would not leave the city before she had word from the Prince of Ithilien and the King of Rohan.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 9, the castle  
  
Vlohiri hurried down the corridor of the northern wing, but he did not bear in mind that the maids were cleaning the rooms and corridors at just this hour of the day. He could not escape them. Within minutes he got buckets to carry, linens to change and towels to bring down to the big washhouse. He was further delayed by the older boys blocking the main way out of the northern tower. He had to use his escape route, but still heard their hateful shouts – "Hey, scarecrow, why you run so fast?" – "Hey, imbecile, seen your crazy mother today?" – until he reached the lower level of the main building. He quickly evaded a soldier, who would never bother to look where he walked, and made it to the dungeon two hours later than expected. He was out of breath and truly disappointed when he saw three guards with clubs enter the stairway. One of them was Lt. Medros. He feared him. Once he had grasped him by his hair to draw him out of the dungeon, and since that day Vlohiri always got gooseflesh when he only saw him from afar. He hid in a corner nearby, waited long minutes. From downstairs he heard shouts – "Get back from the door!" - and rumble, chains rattling and suppressed screams. Vlohiri frowned and was not sure if he should stay any longer. If the guards were angry they did not bother about who got the blame. But when he was about to rise and leave, the three guards brought a prisoner up the stairway. He wore footchains and was hooded, and his hands were bound tightly to his back. He could only take small steps, and the men shoved him to make him go faster. Vlohiri squatted deeper into the corner to make sure he would be completely out of sight. He shivered with fear when he recognized Lt. Medros face. It was usually ugly, but right now it was distorted by anger. Vlohiri did not dare breathing or moving a muscle until they had passed his position.  
  
"Why did she not come down?" a guard mumbled, and Medros hushed him at once.  
  
"You are not questioning her, understood?"  
  
Vlohiri watched the back of the men and allowed himself a shallow breath, congratulating himself to be left unseen. He thought that Medros would have ripped him apart, and again a shiver ran through his body. The prisoner tried to get rid of the arms holding him; without rest he tore at the guards, but he didn't say a word. The guards answered with more shoving, made him stumble. He fell onto his knees and was pulled up again roughly. To Vlohiri it looked like a bitter game – one that cats played with mice. The small animal never won.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 9, Ithilien  
  
"Ah, there you are!"  
  
He slowly opened his eyes, squinted against the sun shining in his face, found out even slower that he was lying on his back, and that the face he saw above him was that of a complete stranger. He opened his mouth to form a question, but at the same moment the hands to that face above him lifted his head slightly, and a bowl of water was brought to his lips. He drank, swallowed and let his head sink back again onto a rustling, scratchy pillow. He heard a river nearby, birds singing, and someone chanting. Again he tried to form words. There was much he needed to know: Where he was. Who that old woman was. How he had got here. But he felt weak, and in pain. His right arm seemed to be on fire and could not be lifted. He let his gaze wander around. He was lying in a small wooden house, near the door, and the singing came from outside. The chopping of wood accompanied the rhythm.  
  
"Where...?" he started, his voice raspy and only a whisper.  
  
"River Anduin," she smiled and pointed outdoors.  
  
"How...?" He coughed and had to stop.  
  
Again a toothless smile. She raised the bowl again and helped him drink.  
  
"Found you. Riverbed. Half-drowned." She nodded to the woodcutter. "Brought you here." She stroked his forehead with her callous skinned hand. "You lucky. Say us your name."  
  
He swallowed. The words were swimming in his mind. He had been drowned?  
  
"Faramir," he said. "I am Faramir."  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 9, the castle  
  
After lunch – swede and potatoes cooked in water with some herbs – Vlohiri was occupied with the dishes and washing the floors. He wanted to make it good, so Narana would be proud of him. He still felt guilty for his lie the day before, and he knew that it had always proved advantageous to him to work hard. Sometimes Narana came up with some apples or carrots she had saved for the evening. Or even some fresh baked bread. He loved her self- made bread.  
  
He spent the whole afternoon on his knees, scrubbing and sweating, but it felt good to work. And Narana praised him when he was finished. As he had hoped, a big piece of bread was in her hand and quickly in his.  
  
"Thank you!" he exclaimed, and, with his prey in hand, escaped through the open door. He hid the bread at once and changed direction to escape the gang of the elder boys. Taking two steps at a time Vlohiri fled down the stairway and made it to the eastern tower in less than ten minutes, which truly was a new record.  
  
Breathless he looked where he was and left the small hall. Too many maids and servants worked here, and he wanted to eat his reward undisturbed. So he made his way to the dungeon. The guards were gone; it was quiet down the corridor. Vlohiri looked back, but he was alone. He remembered what had happened in the morning. He did not check out who it had been under the brown hood, but it had been a tall and lean man. Putting the thought aside he entered the corridor and made for the shadows. It might be that the guards were on patrol. 'No one is allowed to the dungeon except the guards,' Vlohiri heard Narana's voice in his head. 'Good,' he thought. 'Than the others will truly not come down here.' He squatted against the wall in the farthest corner and slowly ate the delicious bread.  
  
Satisfied and proud of himself that he had escaped the boys twice that day he stood up again and walked the way back.  
  
"You again?" the soft voice from the first cell asked, and Vlohiri was startled anew, but caught his breath quickly. He halted at the opposite wall. "Should you be here?"  
  
"I can go where I want," Vlohiri answered somewhat obstinately and held back the rest like 'And you cannot.' "I do not need to ask permission."  
  
"I see."  
  
Vlohiri felt sheepish. There was no need to defend his behavior against the prisoner. He was a boy born in this castle (he supposed) and he could do and go wherever he wanted. He changed the subject.  
  
"Was it you this morning... taken by the guards?" Involuntarily he stepped closer to lower his voice and, he had to admit to himself, to get a look upon the prisoner, for this time the man did not come to the bars. Bent forward, he sat on the wooden bench.  
  
"Yes." Vlohiri saw the long brown hair fall into his face, and then the prisoner turned his head only slightly so that the rest of daylight fell on his features. "It was I."  
  
Vlohiri exhaled as if hit by a hammer, and gaped at Aragorn.  
  
"You... your face..." the boy stuttered and stepped back. He was horrified, and shook his head unbelieving. "But..." Unconsciously he touched his own cheek, where Aragorn's was swollen and dark with dried blood. "Who... uh, that... must hurt."  
  
"Go back to your friends," the prisoner said wearily and as if he wanted to safe the boy from the cruel reality.  
  
Vlohiri stroked one hand through his unkempt hair, tried to regain control, find words, the right questions to ask. He had never seen something like that before. True, the soldiers had talked, and Vlohiri's vivid imagination had made the rest out of the stories, but these injuries were for real. He had seen the man's face just the evening before. And now he...  
  
"Tell me," he whispered, stepping closer again. His curiosity won. "Where did they take you? The mines?"  
  
"The Lady has a mine?" Aragorn asked back and stifled a cough.  
  
"Yeah, and a lot of other things. She's really wealthy." He wetted his lips. "So you see the mine?"  
  
"No."  
  
Vlohiri stood on tiptoe, put his hands to the bars, forgetting what Narana and the other maids had said. The prisoner changed his position on the bench, grimaced in pain. The boy imitated the look. "So where...?"  
  
"Hide."  
  
The same moment Vlohiri heard it, too: Heavy footsteps on the stairs, the clanging of the weapons and armour. No time to leave the dungeon. He had been sloppy. Running he escaped to the far end of the dungeon's corridor, knowing that he would be found. He squeezed his eyes shut. He did not want to think about the consequences.  
  
"Why that? Why does he..."  
  
"Stop it, Bayonor, one last time!" It was Medros entering the corridor, and his loud, harsh voice echoed from the walls. "I told you not to question her!"  
  
"But should he not be treated like the other ..." Bayonor stopped. "All right," but he did not sound convinced; he just gave in.  
  
"We do as ordered. And this will be the end of it, understood?" Medros added and pulled the key for the cell. "Stay where you are, prisoner, or there won't be no meal today." The door was opened, and Bayonor put the bowl and bread on the floor.  
  
"It looks like she wasn't satisfied with your behavior this morning, prisoner," Bayonor sneered.  
  
"The satisfaction of a traitress was not my goal," the man in the cell answered, and Vlohiri lifted his head.  
  
"If you were a noble man," the guard spat, "I would demand satisfaction for this impudent reply!"  
  
"If you were noble, your actions would reflect it."  
  
Vlohiri almost leaned out of his hideout. The voice of the prisoner had changed completely, as if another man was speaking. Menacing. Demanding respect. Suddenly the boy was afraid. 'All prisoners are dangerous,' the voice of reason in his head said.  
  
"You ..."  
  
"Let him be, Bayonor!" Medros called out. "Get out! Right now!"  
  
The padlock was set in place again and, cursing and complaining, the guards left the corridor. Vlohiri sat in his hideout, shaking with fear and relief at the same time. The guards had not searched for him; had not even assumed that there was a boy who must not be here. He waited a few minutes longer; his knees were too weak to support him. He did not know what to do when he finally reached that first cell again. His feet stopped all by themselves, but he leaned against the wall.  
  
"You do not need to be afraid. Not of me, anyway," the voice behind the door said, and it sounded as smooth and friendly as before. Vlohiri doubted the words.  
  
"What did you do?" he whispered, and, when no answer came, repeated it a little louder.  
  
"I cannot answer this, for there is no crime I committed."  
  
Vlohiri thought about this answer for a long time. He could not grasp the meaning. The maids always told him that all men in the dungeon were dangerous, able and willing to kill, and that they all had to be in those cells to prevent them from further thefts or even murders.  
  
"But you are here," he stated stubbornly, "and they beat you up. Why?"  
  
There was a long silence. Vlohiri heard the prisoner eat and finally put down the bowl. He coughed again and suppressed a groan when he sat on the bench again.  
  
"How old are you, Vlohiri?"  
  
"I'm ten," he said reluctantly, expecting to hear that he was much too young to understand the answer the grown-up would have to give.  
  
Aragorn just sighed.  
  
"It is difficult."  
  
"It always is," Vlohiri replied annoyed.  
  
"You are wise for your age." The prisoner almost sounded amused, and Vlohiri's anger rose.  
  
"It is what they always say: 'Too difficult to understand for you,' he mimicked Narana. "'You are too young.' 'Don't think about it.' – Is that all there is?"  
  
"No, Vlohiri, but sometimes the answer will not satisfy you, but leave you with even more questions. Now - you can believe it or not – I did not commit any crime that would be punished with imprisonment in a dungeon."  
  
Vlohiri's head was swimming, and he could not understand a word of what Aragorn had said. Angered and in a way disappointed he could not explain he left.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 9, the castle  
  
Nila announced that the young Lord Sadur had just returned from his hunt.  
  
Lady Saborian greeted her son with a warm smile, handed him a goblet of wine and invited him to sit down. Admiringly she let her gaze wander over his features. His face resembled his father's, but his hair was still dark brown, his beard thick and well kept. Under the now dirty cloak his broad shoulders were to be seen, and his appearance had often intimidated his opponents. He had a loud voice that would reach the farest corner of the castle, but right now he smiled and said softly,  
  
"Are you well, mother?"  
  
"Yes, Sadur, I am. The plan will be fulfilled soon. Next summer..."  
  
"You mean ..." He leaned out of his chair. "...the King is dead?"  
  
Lady Saborian indulged in his excitement. Her smile brightened.  
  
"Well, some would say, he had not so much luck."  
  
"He made it a fierce fight, you mean? I could have told you that before. I watched him on the Fields. He is a master with his sword."  
  
"With all your admiration, do not forget that he occupied your place," she reminded him with a sudden earnest that made Sadur nod.  
  
"Sure he did. But ... he was killed then? Lt. Medros was successful?"  
  
"He was. And the King is here. Under his supervision."  
  
Sadur simply gaped at her. The Lady was annoyed by his surprise. She poured herself wine and breathed deeply to check her temper.  
  
"I'm sure there is a special reason for this... measure?" Sadur finally managed to say.  
  
"Yes, there is." She fixed her eyes upon him. "He is here to remind you every day what you had almost lost."  
  
Sadur nodded solemnly.  
  
"You are right, mother."  
  
"Beregor asked the same," she continued in a lighter tone. "And I told him that Denethor worked his whole life keeping the eastern border safe. He was a devoted man, someone who never lingered. There would have been no kingdom to conquer for Aragorn if not for the restless efforts of the Steward. Your father." She paused for a moment, staring at the goblet on the table. "Now – I will make Aragorn work. He shall see what strenuous labor really is like."  
  
"I'm proud of you, mother," he stated honestly, raised his goblet in her direction and drank. "And the others – Noratis, L'Adarac? Do they already know?"  
  
"I informed them a week ago while you were hunting."  
  
"Are you sure it was necessary to involve them? The castle is quite far away from Minas Tirith."  
  
"Yes, and these men will be my eyes and ears out there. They all wanted to get rid of the King, and they will pay the price for my service." She paused, then asked, "Did you bring some deer?"  
  
"Yes, of course!" he laughed. "It seems to me that while men were fighting orcs and other evil creatures the deers had a good life. I gave them to Narana. It will be a holiday's feast once they are roasted." He clicked his tongue as if he could already taste the meat.  
  
The Lady returned a smile.  
  
"Very well done, my son."  
  
"It will be enough for all of us – I mean for the servants and maids, too. I think that after the long fights they should be rewarded, too." He rose. "If you agree."  
  
"If you see it fit, I agree." She escorted him to the door, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Take a rest, my son. We can talk later."  
  
"One more thing, mother." He turned back to her. "Did you already hear about people searching for the King? If his body is not found they will ..."  
  
"No, I don't know yet. But I have someone in Minas Tirith who will keep us informed."  
  
"Very well." He slightly bowed and left the room.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 10, Rohan  
  
The messenger had been given two horses, but the hard and long ride had left man and beasts completely exhausted. The man almost fell from his horse when he reached Edoras. Strong hands helped him on his feet, and though he could hardly stand he demanded to be brought before the King at once. "Hold it, young man," the guard said with a laugh. "We take you there, but take a rest first! You look like you would break down any moment."  
  
The messenger shook his head decisively.  
  
"No. I need to see him right now."  
  
And they took him before the King of Rohan.  
  
The man, tall and strong, fair-haired and with a look that had intimidated his foes, waited for him in Meduseld. He wore a night blue tunic, fitting trousers and riding boots. Upon entering the messenger bowed and had to steady himself at the next table.  
  
"Sit down, my friend!" Éomer exclaimed and came down the steps. "Bring wine for this man – right now!" He himself came forward and took the opposite bench. "Now, will you tell me your name? I already know that the King must have sent you. I recognized the horses."  
  
The man shook his head violently and gulped the wine he was handed.  
  
"No, not the King," he uttered, putting down the goblet. "Lady Arwen sends me. My name is Hamamin, I am one of the King's guards in Minas Tirith. The King... he has disappeared."  
  
Éomer, until now quietly amused with the haste of this man, bent forward.  
  
"What did you say?" he asked with a worried expression. "Disappeared? What happened?"  
  
"He was on a hunt, but did not return." And Hamamin told the King of Rohan what he knew.  
  
Éomer gazed through the open door. Sunlight was fading fast. His face had a fierce expression when he turned back.  
  
"We will gather the men tonight and ride with the first light tomorrow," he decided and rose. "Take a good night's sleep, Hamamin, it will be a hard ride."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 15, the castle  
  
Beregor hastened up the steps to the Lady's private rooms, his cuirass and sword clanking loudly. In the corridor he met with Nila. Her eyebrows indicated how upset she was, but Beregor stopped her litany before she could gain enough breath to speak.  
  
"I need to see the Lady immediately. It's important."  
  
She lifted her chin as if to say that nothing a dirty, sweaty, rude soldier would have to say could be of any importance.  
  
"It is late," she stated the obvious, and Beregor clenched his teeth. He kept himself from throwing the woman aside and step over her unconscious body, and repeated his message. "I heard you the first time, sir," Nila replied coolly and reminded Beregor of the Lady herself. "And I recommend you to wait until tomorrow morning. After breakfast it would be fitting." The soldier was furious, close to screaming at the maid, when he recalled his manners and just shoved her aside. "He, how dare you...", but he had already reached the room, knocked and moved in without further delay. Nila almost threw herself behind him. "My Lady, he pushed me!" she complained. "I tried to keep him outside! I really tried!"  
  
"My Lady... ," Beregor bowed and waited while Nila punched him against his shoulder. She shook her hand then for the man's shoulder was hard as stone.  
  
Lady Saborian turned away from the window. She already wore her clothes for the night and quickly pulled over the morning gown, which Nila handed her. The maid stood before her Lady protecting her from being seen before she was dressed correctly. Beregor lifted his eyes.  
  
"You have a message for me, Lord Beregor?" Lady Saborian asked and hushed Nila out of the way. Upon her glance Nila left the room and closed the door. Her look meant that the Lady should not be alone with a man, but she obeyed. The Lady's features softened, and Beregor cleared his throat before answering,  
  
"Yes, my Lady, though it is late, I thought you would want to know right now. Prince Faramir is dead. He fell into the River Anduin and did not surface."  
  
The Lady took a deep breath, keeping a clear mind.  
  
"Tell me exactly what happened."  
  
"The Prince located my hideout, but I overwhelmed him. In the fight he fell over the cliffs. I followed him eastward, but he did not reach a shore."  
  
"Did you see his dead body?"  
  
Beregor frowned. "No, my Lady, it was clear to me that he had drowned. The river runs fast, my Lady, and it is deep and cold."  
  
"Very well. What about the traces of the fight? Will anyone find out what happened?"  
  
"I covered up my tracks immediately, my Lady."  
  
"His horse?"  
  
"I let it go. After that I rode as fast as I could, but avoided the villages. I'm sure that no one will ever find out what happened." He stepped forward. "His sword, my Lady." He put the weapon on the table in front of her. "The traces might read that the Prince went for a walk, slipped and fell."  
  
"Very well done, my friend. You exceed all my expectations." The Lord smirked. "Your reward will be as promised."  
  
"Did your men accomplish the second part of your plan?"  
  
"They did."  
  
"And is he still alive?"  
  
"Don't you trust me, Lord Beregor?" she teased.  
  
The Lord quickly shook his head.  
  
"Of course I do trust you, my Lady. But – if the question is granted – why do you let him live?"  
  
"Shall we speak about this tomorrow?" Her smile was less friendly than before. "You must be tired and need a rest. Nila will show you to a room. We will meet in the hall after breakfast."  
  
"Very well, my Lady." He bowed and left.  
  
Lady Saborian stood at the table and carefully, with relish, stroked the blade and hilt. It glowed in the candlelight. The victory was hers. And it was complete. Faramir's accident would leave the throne of Gondor empty – until next summer. She hid the sword in a cupboard and went to bed.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 15, the castle, evening  
  
For six days he had not been in the dungeon. He could not even describe his feelings. He brooded over what Aragorn had said to him, but it looked like written words: He could not read them. In one moment he was infuriated, in the next sad. He did not know what he should believe – that all prisoners were guilty and it was right that they were in the dungeon, or what Aragorn had said – that he had not committed any crime. 'No crime that would be punished with imprisonment in a dungeon.' What did that mean? A crime like ... cheating? Did he cheat in a game? Or did he steal the wife of another man? Vlohiri had heard people talk about these things. It happened. Was Aragorn a thief?  
  
"Were you looking for your mother?" Narana asked quietly when he cleaned the bowls and cups from the servants' table.  
  
"No." The question for his mother was the least he wanted to hear right now. He had seen his mother that day, but as usual she had only looked at him, and after a few tries he had given up. This time he had walked away, crying silent, angry tears. He needed someone to trust. Someone to explain to him what he needed to know.  
  
"Flea, what happened to you?" Her voice was very close to his ear now. The round cook had knelt beside him, worry in her big, lenient eyes. "I never saw you so... unhappy."  
  
He stared at her. Was she the one to trust? To ask for help?  
  
"Is it true that all men in the dungeon have done something... terrible?" he asked her hesitantly. "Like... cheating?"  
  
Narana frowned. Vlohiri saw the suspicion in her eyes and regretted the question immediately. "No, Flea, not cheating. If the Lady sends someone down to the dungeon he has done something really, really terrible."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
Narana rose again, slowly and with a grimace.  
  
"It's getting cold. I can feel it in my knees." She smoothed her apron and put a hand on her back. "But, lad, there are many crimes worth it – theft, murder, poaching. A poacher was arrested two weeks ago," she added in a lighter tone. "Lt. Medros and his men caught him when he shot a deer." She looked at him curiously. "Is that enough as an answer?"  
  
"And who says that the man is guilty?"  
  
"The Lady does," Narana said as if it was self-explanatory.  
  
"She always knows it? How? Is she everywhere?" It was a thought he feared. If she were that mighty she would know of his escapes to the dungeon!  
  
Narana shrugged:  
  
"Someone else witnesses the crime and tells her about it. Or it's one of the soldiers – like with that poacher."  
  
The boy was relieved – in a way after all. But he still was not satisfied.  
  
"Did you see him?"  
  
"The poacher? No. As you should know – nobody is allowed to go to the dungeon except the guards." 'And you better listen to me,' her look added.  
  
"I know, I know," Vlohiri hastened to confirm, dried his hands on his pants and was gone, escaping further comments and well-meant pieces of advice.  
  
Outside he still wiped his palms against the cloth and made a decision: He wanted to ask the prisoner at once why he did not tell him the truth. Determined he strode down the corridor. It was cold and through the slits of the windows wind was whistling. With his hands under his woolen jacket he had got from one of the maids, he rounded the corner – and almost ran into the oldest boy, the leader of the pack. He was two feet taller than Vlohiri, had a round face with a large nose, real muscles under his tunic, but little brain under his light-brown mass of hair.  
  
"Hey, scarecrow, so alone?" the boy snarled, looking down upon him. Vlohiri stopped, evaded, but the other boy mimicked his movement. "Looking for your imbecile? Saw her up the south tower – fell through the floor." He laughed alone. Vlohiri's heart beat faster. He could not escape that boy! He pulled his fists out of his jacket, but the older boy was much faster, slapped his face with his big hand. Vlohiri stumbled backward, but used the chance to break into a run in the opposite direction. He heard the laughing behind him, but he knew that the boy would not follow him. He was too slow. With his shrill voice he called for the others.  
  
Breathlessly Vlohiri ran through the corridors, looked back from time to time, making sure that none of the boy's friends saw him. His cheek was burning hot with pain, and while he ran he did not feel the tears streaming down his face. He felt as if he had lost everything. His mother, his father. Nobody was on his side. God, how he hated being alone!  
  
For a moment he stopped to blot his face with the hem of his shirt. When he looked back he had a second to evade – the big boy's younger brother watched the corridor - then ran away. Vlohiri knew that he could not return right now. They would have swarmed the northern part of the castle to make sure at least two of them would catch him before he could tell a maid what happened. So he continued his way to the eastern tower. Usually the boys were called back by their parents at night. Then he could return to his bed.  
  
He waited until he was sure the dungeon did not hide any guards just waiting for him, then, slowly, he went downstairs. The torches were still lit which was uncommon, and he hesitated again. Looked back the steps he had come. Nothing. Quietness. Cautiously he left the stairway and entered the corridor.  
  
"Aragorn?" he whispered in the dark of the cell. He heard the rustling of straw, coughs and moans. A chain rattled. Further down someone was shouting in a language the boy did not understand. Vlohiri was frightened and his heart beat fast. He let his gaze wander between the stairs and the corridor. He did not want to be cornered again. When the prisoner looked at him through the bars, Vlohiri was startled.  
  
"Still up so late, Vlohiri?" the prisoner asked and seemed truly astonished.  
  
"You are the poacher they caught, right?" Vlohiri accused him the same second. "You shot a deer."  
  
"That's what the guards told you?" Aragorn coughed again. His face was still bruised, and the cut on his right cheekbone was healing slowly. It looked even worse in the restless gleam of the torch. Vlohiri did not want to look at it, so he stared at the scratches on the wood of the door.  
  
"Narana did."  
  
"Narana is...?"  
  
"The cook. She told me you were captured by Lt. Medros," he said stubbornly, looking up again. "And that the Lady said you go to the dungeon for that crime. She knows you're guilty."  
  
Aragorn exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment.  
  
"Guilt is a hard word," he then said and looked at him again. "Before you can talk about guilt you have to say what is the crime." Vlohiri stared at him. He had expected the prisoner to defend himself, saying, he was not guilty and that the deer had already been dead. Something like that. "I cannot convince you, lad. You either believe me or Narana. You do not know me. So it is your right to trust who you know." Another pause followed. Vlohiri felt the cold creep up his legs and arms. He shivered and rubbed his arms. The prisoner down the other side of the corridor whined bitterly. It sounded awful in the cold darkness. "But still – I speak the truth. I did not kill any beast on the Lady's lands. I had not even been there when I was captured."  
  
Vlohiri locked eyes with Aragorn, not knowing what to think. He wanted to be convinced that all men locked up in these cells deserved their sentence. This was what he had been told since he could understand words. But Aragorn had not reacted as he expected it.  
  
"I'm so confused," he admitted and almost broke into tears.  
  
"Go to bed, Vlohiri." Aragorn stepped away from the bars, and slowly Vlohiri made his way back into the hall. Aragorn's answer was like mist he could not see through. 'Confusion' was a word too weak to describe the trouble he felt.  
  
Deep in thoughts he forgot about the boys and the soldiers hanging around near the fireplace. He just felt the warmth floating through him. The numbness of his feet slowly faded. With his hands in his armpits he walked to the corridor leading to the bedroom of the maids.  
  
"Ey, you, bring us beer!" a big man shouted at him. First he just turned and thought he could not mean him, but the man with the red beard repeated his order louder, pointing at him with his stout finger. Vlohiri's heart sank. He had hoped to slip under his blanket – hopefully without being beaten up by the boys – and now he was a servant suddenly. He ran for the beer and returned to the table with a full pitcher and mugs. When he put it on the table he recognized Medros among the men waiting, and he almost dropped the last mug. His hands were shaking. He stepped back, bowed and was about to leave when the red-bearded soldier mused:  
  
"That poacher makes some trouble, it seems."  
  
Vlohiri left the hall, but halted behind the corner, pressed himself into the darkness, making sure no one was behind him.  
  
"Yeah," Medros answered slowly, obviously unhappy about the subject. "I heard the Lady ordered you to bring him up to the main hall." Medros did not answer, so the man continued, "Quite unusual, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"Was it him again – five or six days ago – on the way to the hall? With cuffs and hood?" Medros exhaled noisily. "Quite a poacher, hm?"  
  
"He is strong, yes."  
  
"And hard to restrain, too. Why did she want to see him? And then twice – or even three times, if that servant, Bestin, or what his name is, can be trusted. She never did that before – as far as I know. What did she want to know from him? How many deer he shot?" He seemed to smile with that sentence. "The only ones I saw were brought in by Sadur. And that was days later. Did you not take the deer?" Medros grumbled something the boy could not understand. The beer mugs were put back on the table. Vlohiri almost stopped breathing, so excited he was. Again he checked if he was alone. The corridor behind him was cold and dark. "For how many days did she send him to the dungeon?"  
  
"I cannot say."  
  
"Well, he has been there for two weeks now. Last time a poacher was captured she sentenced him to three weeks. And then he was thrown off the lands." He laughed silently.  
  
"He will not get away with three weeks now," Medros qualified reluctantly, growling.  
  
"No? Well, maybe then one should tell the other poachers waiting in the woods that the sentence has risen." He laughed loudly about his joke. "But, my friend, what made her change her mind?"  
  
Vlohiri peered around the corner to see Medros' face. The Lieutenant clenched his teeth and stared at his mug.  
  
"I do not know."  
  
"Now, Medros ... do not try to tell me you do not know. Was this deer a friend of the Lady's? Or was there anything else he did? Did he break his chains? Strong as a wild boar? I heard that Bayonor was hit?"  
  
"Anything else you want to talk about?" Medros eyed the soldier angrily.  
  
"I did not say it was your fault." The red-bearded soldier emptied his mug and poured more beer. "Why is Lady Saborian so interested in this man? What makes him special?"  
  
"She does what she wants to do, Trebor, you know that." Medros now sounded angry and bored at the same time.  
  
"Yes, and you always know what she wants. Quite a coincidence that you were in the woods with your men."  
  
Medros' eyes pierced the other man.  
  
"Enough of that now!"  
  
"Medros, please, my friend, calm down," Trebor said defensively. "Curiosity made me ask, not accusation."  
  
"Well, then, enough of that for tonight."  
  
The subject changed to the feast they longed for, and Vlohiri left his place. His feet and hands were cold again, so he spurted to the maids' room.  
  
Slipping under the cover he still thought about the poacher, but sleep came quickly.  
  
* * * 


	3. Chapter 3

Day 15, Ithilien  
  
The woodcutter, his name was Dregan, helped Faramir up, pulled his left arm over his broad shoulder and escorted him outdoors. It was a cloudy day, the wind gusty and cold, but the Prince enjoyed it nevertheless. His right arm was held by a sling the old woman had made of a piece of cloth, and though the wound was healing, he still could hardly move it, and when he did it felt as if the wound would break up again. Faramir was still too weak to walk alone, and yet he urgently wanted to return home. By now Lady Eowyn would have sent soldiers to search for him, but he did not dare to hope that they would follow the river. It would not seem possible that he could have survived the fall and the cold waters. That, he added, must have been the attacker's assumption, too. All day he thought about the fight with the hooded man and his fall. He could not recall how long he had been in the river, but when he slept nightmares of drowning, the raging waters around him, and the darkness accompanied with it, woke him bathed in sweat.  
  
"Better, hm?" Dregan said. He never spoke much, but his strength was indispensable, so Faramir nodded and walked a few steps. His lungs hurt as much as his arm. Every breath of cold air felt like needles piercing his throat. He knew he should rest and wait, and he would have done if he had been at home, but here in the wilderness his only wish was to regain his strength and walk home.  
  
"Where did you find me?" he asked. Dregan raised his free arm to point the place. "Take me there, please." It took them a long time to reach the spot. Bathed in sweat and with his strength fading Faramir stared at the stones and the sand of the shore. The river made a soft turn at this point, and Dregan had explained to him earlier that he had been fishing that day he found him. Otherwise Faramir would have drowned for sure.  
  
'Who was that foe?' the Prince wondered again. 'He did not accuse me, did not reveal himself - like a murderer fulfilling his task.' He shook violently with cold and weakness.  
  
"We go back," Dregan decided and slowly turned. Faramir followed until his knees could no longer carry him. The woodcutter grunted and lifted him like he had done the day he rescued him.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 16, the castle  
  
Sadur placed his gloved hands on the cold stones of the outer wall of the castle. Taking in the fresh air he looked beyond the eastern tower to the mountain where his mother's ancestors had begun to work on a mine, which had proved favourable. All the stones for the castle had come from one single place, and the rear wall of Deromonor was so close to the lowest mountain slope you could almost touch it. Still the mine worked with profit, and a part of the family wealth came from the ore, which was sold to the peasants and noble men for the forges, to use for weapons as well as ploughs. Now, after the war was over, the ore was more needed than before. The lands were devastated for all men had served in war. Now they needed spades and carts and tools, and the mine provided the material. The labour was strenuous, and only the strongest men were able to hack the stones. The Lady's father often had used prisoners to work in the mine, and therefore – Sadur recalled with a smirk – he had had very few crimes committed on his grounds. Lady Saborian had continued this practice, but had made sure that no one died. Sadur remembered her addressing the guards that enough water and food was handed to the workers and prisoners as well. 'Firm but just' she was called, and Sadur was proud of his mother. She had done much to improve the lives of the workers and peasants, and even while she had lived with him in Minas Tirith she had sent messengers to Deromonor frequently to stay informed. Being home again she had rewarded Lt. Medros for his efforts, and the Lieutenant had thanked her with his loyalty.  
  
Lady Saborian joined her son, pulling her warm cloak tight around her body. The sight of Sadur lifted her mood. She had done for him what was in her power, and she knew he was grateful for it.  
  
"I can hardly wait that this winter is over," he said turning to her.  
  
She patted his arm.  
  
"Be patient. The longest wait is over. The plan is fulfilled. Next summer the people of Gondor will chant for you." She smiled at him reassuringly, and Sadur nodded:  
  
"I will be a just ruler, mother. I will do what is necessary to restore the land."  
  
"I know that." Pride made her smile. All that she wanted her son to become he had become. He was strong and proud, wise for his age, and as just as a noble man could be. As a Steward he would rule the land with a firm hand.  
  
"There still is the question what you have in mind for the King."  
  
"You looked into the right direction." For a minute they both watched the sun rise over the mountaintop. "I just needed the saddler to make some adjustments." He asked her with a look, and she added, "It seemed to me that he is hard to restrain."  
  
"I talked to Lord Beregor. The way he described the incident was... unpleasant."  
  
Lady Saborian sighed.  
  
"Well said. The Lord was ill advised to openly show off with his attack against the Prince. The King was furious – though that word does not describe it enough. And so he had no words to spend..."  
  
"He threw himself into Lord Beregor." Sadur shook his head. The wind freshened up, let the banner fly and rustled the leaves in the castle's garden. A soldier passed by, bowed in astonishment to the Lady and went on. "He must know that there lies no victory in those fights." Frowning he added, "Wasn't Medros there to stop him?"  
  
"As with the incidents we had had before he was present and stopped the attack quickly. Beregor was not hurt."  
  
"His feelings maybe." Sadur smirked. "Beregor is always so eager to show off he will hope that no one gets to know he was pushed by a prisoner."  
  
"By a handcuffed and shackled prisoner," the Lady added smiling. "We both better keep our mouths shut about this."  
  
"As well as about many other things. Do you trust Noratis?" he finally asked.  
  
"The conspirators would be all blamed in the same way if one of them gave the crime away. I am sure they will all take advantage of the King's disappearance and return to the White City."  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 16, the castle  
  
The Lady sent Medros to fetch the harness from the saddler, who just shrugged for he had not known what it was meant for. The Lieutenant thanked him and, with a look at the thick pieces of leather carefully sewed together, asked himself why this had not been available earlier. Once put on it would be possible to adjust the chains for the handcuffs as short as necessary and even bind the prisoner to a cart to keep him from running away. Medros hid the harness under his cloak, and, with Bayonor, made for the dungeon.  
  
"You know that you will have to knock him out to even get close to him?" Bayonor warned when he was filled in the plan. Medros agreed. "And... did you bring a hammer with a long handle? Or do you just want to ask him politely to stand where he stands?"  
  
Medros did not laugh about the mockery. Since the day they had captured the King his laughs were rare.  
  
"I know that he will not pull this on like a coat, but..."  
  
"Yes, tell me... the Lady wants it and we do as ordered."  
  
"You are quick-witted, my friend."  
  
"I'm a poor soldier with a need to sustain my wife and three children," Bayonor somewhat ruefully contradicted.  
  
A short moment Medros smiled.  
  
"You are lucky to have them! Ey, Lanar!" he shouted to a soldier passing by. "Give us a hand." The man looked like arguing, but an intimidating glare from Medros made him falter. He followed them down into the dungeon, mumbling to himself that his shift was over. "It will be over when we are done here." He let his voice drop. "Here... that is what we have to put on him." Lanar sighed deeply. "And as we know it will not be easy. So we have to be determined."  
  
"More than anything we have to be fast, " Bayonor reminded them. "In my opinion we should throw stones at him before we even think about opening the door."  
  
"That would not be in the Lady's interest – and then not in ours," Medros warned and together they entered the corridor. He pulled the key for the padlock, peering through the bars. "You stay where you are, prisoner. We will take you to work. So you better give up at once."  
  
Aragorn rose, and though he was in pain from the preceded confrontations, he stood upright, sternly facing his foe.  
  
"If you come in, Medros, you will find out about my will to give up."  
  
Medros exchanged glances with Bayonor and Lanar.  
  
"We are three, and we are armed. There is no need to prove yourself in a fight you cannot win."  
  
"I am no beast you can lead around on a chain."  
  
"You will work in the mine, and our orders are to take you there."  
  
Lanar weighed the club in his right hand and took position. Until now it had never been necessary to be on alert like this. He sweat with fear he might do something wrong. He had seen Aragorn fight the first time, and now he was not even handcuffed! Swallowing he tried to calm himself. The Lieutenant and his friend were experienced fighters. He did not need to worry.  
  
With a quick nod to Bayonor Medros opened the padlock and took it out of the eye. Aragorn reached the door the same second. Pushing it open he attacked in a fluent motion, fast and viciously. He threw himself against Medros, pressing him with all his weight against the wall. The Lieutenant hit the back of his head, lost grip on his opponent, stunned. Aragorn turned, blocked Bayonor's fist with his right arm, punched him hard in his face. Bayonor screamed. Instantly dodging Lanar's too slow swing with the club, the King grabbed the guard's arm, tore it back and, with his left hand, pushed Lanar's forehead against the wall. Breathless he sent Bayonor unconscious to the floor with another blow. Medros was about to move when Aragorn ripped the key off the chain. A quick hit to his chin ended the fight.  
  
Aragorn looked around hastily. Knowing that other guards would swarm the castle within minutes, he hurried to open the shackles, took Bayonor's cloak and club, and hastened up the stairway, driven by fear of discovery. His outer appearance gave him away so he had to leave the castle immediately. He did not count on finding a hideout within the castle walls. Aragorn needed orientation for every time he had left the dungeon he had been blindfolded. A young servant looked in his direction, suspicious at once, and Aragorn, with the hood drawn up, strolled of, down the corridor, searching for a way out.  
  
Medros shook his head, but the pain remained like a hammer falling on an anvil. He opened his eyes and cursed viciously. A boy stood above him, shook his shoulder, and he shoved him away.  
  
"How long...?" he murmured.  
  
"I don't know, sir, but a man in a green cloak ran away."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Not long ago."  
  
Medros was outraged and got up too fast. He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath. The dungeon seemed to turn around him.  
  
"Damn it!" he cursed, and the boy turned and fled. Lanar and Bayonor had bruises on forehead and cheekbone, but the Lieutenant was not interested in complains and moaning. "Up! Quick! He's ahead of us!"  
  
Lanar's vision was swimming; Bayonor coughed and slowly rose to his feet.  
  
"He... doesn't know... where he... is," Bayonor stuttered, one hand at the wall, the other in his face to check if he was bleeding.  
  
"I don't care!" Medros bellowed. "He will find it out soon enough! Up! Run! We must find him before he leaves the castle!" With the shackles in hand, he led them upstairs, gathered five more soldiers on the way and sent them to search the nearby corridors and rooms in case the prisoner had hid himself. "He's tall, lean, dark-haired. But be careful!" he warned them. "He will even kill you to escape! And – if you kill him, the Lady kills you – all of you!" The soldiers broke into a run, while Medros gathered his hunting gear. It had not been in use for some time, but he always kept it handy. Then he headed for the main gate. It was open as always in peaceful times, and Medros cursed again under his breath. He quickly ordered the guard at the gate to collect his dogs. "The poacher just escaped! Make haste!" The man obeyed and brought five hounds from the cages. Medros held the shackles to the dogs' noses. "He cannot be far."  
  
"All right then," the guard answered, "let them run!"  
  
Medros whistled to the groom, and he saddled up four horses as fast as his trembling hands allowed. Big-eyed he brought them, but did not dare to ask what happened. Medros was still cursing when he and his men rode of, following the dogs as fast as they could. Medros' headache worsened by the minute. He could not see clearly, and only his long experience kept him in the saddle. Lanar touched his forehead several times, but the pain remained the same. Only Bayonor had fully recovered and was eager to find the prisoner. He would not again try to escape! He spurred his horse when the woods drew nearer. The hounds were way ahead of them, their barking almost inaudible. But it was still before noon; they would have enough daylight to locate the King and – Bayonor swore to himself – make him suffer for his attack!  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 16, Minas Tirith  
  
The rush of feelings made Arwen tremble. It was like a waterfall suddenly returning to a long deserted river, tearing her off her feet. She grabbed a hold at the table, moaning, closing her eyes. She had to sit down, and the maid quickly went to her side, touched her arm.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
Arwen nodded, unable to speak and unwilling to. This moment should not be broken. She breathed fast and shallowly. The feelings intensified. Freedom. Anxiety. A glimpse of happiness. Hope. More than all – hope. She was so relieved she smiled. Finally, after these long days, she could reach him, though she still could not tell where he was. But after the long wait she was overwhelmed. Aragorn was still alive! And right now he had taken his fortune into his own hands. She suddenly knew how tense he was; that he was running – escaping someone. Still the danger was not over. She knew enough about his strength to trust him to outrun or face his enemies. He was the best fighter with the sword; he had proven himself worthy of all the songs Elves and Men sang about him.  
  
Arwen remained at the table, sharing his emotions, concentrating on him, trying to hold the bond. She feared in her heart that the mental connection would be gone from one moment to the other. Her fingers still hold fast to the wooden table though no physical act would keep him in her reach. She felt his tension rise, the return of fear like dark clouds covering a blue sky.  
  
Unconsciously Arwen whimpered, kept her eyes firmly shut. With the fear anger rose, followed by a wave of determination. His foes had found him. He had to fight, but still there was hope.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 16, the woods at Deromonor  
  
The hunter was the first to recognise the figure among the trees. The hounds barked ferociously, snarled, ready to bite. Medros yelled:  
  
"Don't let them kill him!" and the hunter spurred his horse to gallop, dodged under low trees and outran the guards. Medros' head hurt so bad he felt sick, but the thought of the Lady's outrage if he did not return with the King kept him in the saddle. Pushing the thought aside that he might fail he fingered for the net he had brought. "For God's sake, make them stop!" He could not understand the reply, but rode on, following the barking somewhere into the shadows of the old forest. Bayonor's face was contorted with anger while Lanar looked determined enough to make any usual escapee give up at once. They both would suffer the same mockery – and worse - if they returned empty handed. 'What a shame!' Medros thought bitterly. It would spread like wildfire that he had lost against a poacher! No contradiction would quiet the rumours that he could not even hold a stupid poacher.  
  
When they caught up, Lanar and Bayonor dismounted and drew their swords. Aragorn was cornered by the dogs, which were tearing at his cloak, his trousers, trying to jump at his arms. He clubbed one of them, but the others quickly attacked the other arm and his legs. The King fought on, making the hounds whine. His look was fierce, menacing. He already bled from a gash on his right arm, but used the club with the same skill as with a sword, keeping the hounds at bay as long as possible. But they were fast and had served for this purpose before. They instinctively knew when to retreat and attack again. Their ripping, tearing, and barking continued no matter how fast the King swung the club.  
  
Lanar stepped forward.  
  
"Give up before they tear you to pieces!"  
  
Another blow. One of the hounds fell to its side, paws twitching. The second hung at the back of the cloak, making the King stumble backwards. He spun around, hitting the hound on its back. It let go. The third bit into the already torn trousers, throwing the King off balance with his weight. He fell on his back, swung the club, when another dog sank his fangs into his wrist. The Kings stifled the scream, but dropped the weapon. Another dog tore at his left sleeve immediately, forcing the King to lie down. On a whistle the other dogs kept a distance now, and quickly Bayonor grabbed the club, taking it out of reach. Lanar sheathed his sword, but getting closer, the King kicked him. Without thinking Lanar was over him, holding a dagger to his throat. The King did not flinch, threatening his opponent with his stare.  
  
"One more move, prisoner, and you are done for!"  
  
"You do not dare to kill me!" Aragorn growled, struggling to free his arms now hold by Bayonor. The hound nearby bared its fangs, ready to bite again if the prey moved too fast.  
  
"If I have to I will!"  
  
"Enough!" Medros dismounted and shackled the King's legs in spite of his defence. "Turn him!"  
  
"Even if you cage me again you cannot deny who I am!"  
  
Lanar reluctantly took away the dagger and, with more force than needed, turned the prisoner on his stomach, pressing his wrists into the handcuffs, while Bayonor almost knelt between the King's shoulder blades. "Up with you!" Lanar gladly pulled at the King's arms and was rewarded with groaning and hissing. The King was bleeding from several wounds, but the worst was on his wrist, where the hound's sharp teeth had held him. "They are right... you are as dangerous as a cave troll."  
  
"I prefer their company to yours," but it was a weak reply, and Medros only smiled venomously.  
  
"You are beaten, prisoner, for the – help me count – third time? Or is it the forth? From now on the mines will teach you obedience."  
  
"Your Lady will hang for treason – even if she tries to hide me. The search will go on."  
  
"I will stop these insults right now." The Lieutenant pulled the gag out of his pocket, noticing that the hunter was occupied with his hounds and would not have heard the conversation.  
  
"You are an accomplice, Medros, and you will be punished for it." He turned his head to avoid the gag, but Bayonor was eager to hold him firmly until it was done. He even brought the hood. The Lieutenant thanked him with a nod, while Bayonor took back his cloak, almost whining about the holes it now carried.  
  
Medros used a rope to connect the belt of the prisoner with the saddle, mounted and spurred the horse. Aragorn had no choice but to trail along. He stumbled frequently, but Medros did not even bother to look, just kept his horse going. He brought the poacher back – and feared at the same time that this would not be enough to satisfy the Lady.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 16, the castle  
  
The people in the little village at the foot of the castle gaped at the procession led alongside their homes – "Look, the poacher! They've caught him!" "See, no one escapes his sentence!" Medros kept a stern face. Behind him the blindfolded prisoner, clothed in ragged trousers and tunic bearing several wounds and scratches, stumbled in his misery, and Medros felt a grim kind of satisfaction that in the end the King had lost again. But the hunt had been as necessary as a stab to the heart. Even if the King would from now on work in the mine, as the Lady had ordered, and could not escape again, it was a stain on Medros' reputation. For all the years he had been known as a commander who knew everything and acted appropriately. It was because of those decisions that the Lady had called him a Lieutenant in the guard and gave him the special order to capture the King. Pride had flowed through him, and he had eagerly taken up the challenge. Now it looked like the King was too much for him to handle. Again Medros cursed. It all had gone wrong from the start. He should not have announced what he was about to do. He should have gone straightforward to overwhelm the prisoner and not given him the slightest chance to defend himself. He had experienced before what the King was able to do. It was his fault, and Lady Saborian would see it that way. He despised the thought of confronting her with the news of the King's close escape. She had given strict order that no more people than necessary should know of that prisoner. Now it seemed that not only the castle's servants but all people from the village knew about him. Another reason to curse violently.  
  
The sudden thud behind him made him turn in his saddle. The prisoner lay in the mud, must have fallen over an obstacle that had promptly vanished for Medros could not see anything in the way. With keen eyes he sized the men and women lining the pass to the castle, and, halting his horse, ordered Lanar with a nod to dismount and help the King up. A few men grinned and turned away, and Medros could not blame them for playing pranks. Poaching was a crime, and it was even worse because the prisoner did not come from their village. In their eyes he had no right to be here. He knew if he left the prisoner behind they would kill him.  
  
Shaking his head, Medros let his horse walk slowly up the bridge and the main way, then slid out of the saddle and returned the rein to the waiting groom.  
  
"You were successful, sir, congratulations!" the man said cheerfully and with a broad smile. "The Lady now truly will sentence him to death!"  
  
Medros took the end of the rope, nodded without listening, and pulled to make the prisoner walk behind him. He knew what had to be done, and he would only be happy when this task was fulfilled.  
  
"Was it your purpose? To tell every man and woman in these lands who that prisoner is?" The Lady stood in the shades of the hall, hands crossed in front of her bosom. Her lips were tight, her eyes angry, and even her long brown hair, meticulously draped over her slender shoulders, did not soften her look. Medros felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He noticed that the hall was empty, no guard or servant in sight. She must have waited for his return. Her anger had risen during that time, and he could only hope that the saying 'firm but just' would also apply for him. Medros swallowed and bowed to the Lady of Ice.  
  
"No, my Lady, it was not. I apologise for my failure. It will not happen again."  
  
"All the incidents should not have happened, Lt. Medros," the Lady hissed. Lanar and Bayonor had reached the hall, bowed and waited silently for new orders. "Only this was the worst. I thought you would be able to keep him under control."  
  
Medros took the accusation lying down. He did not remind her that she had ordered to give the King some freedom of movement within the cell. He had not at all speculated for the reason.  
  
"Your orders are still the same?" he asked cautiously, praying that she would not continue to list up his failures in front of the guards and the prisoner.  
  
"Yes, Medros. You still have the harness? – Very well." She paused and stepped aside to have a closer look at the swaying King, whose chin almost touched his chest. Her dark blue gown rustled with every step, and the prisoner slowly raised his head, but seemed too tired to make a move. Blood had run down his fingers, dripped on the floor. "Bayonor, you will pay Lomac a visit and asked him for ointment and bandages. I do not wish the prisoner to die because of these bite wounds." Behind her back Bayonor's eyes bulged, and his mouth was agape, though he did not say a word. He knew as well as the Lieutenant that their situation was bad enough without further arguing. "And to keep your surprise in check you will treat the prisoner in his cell." The guard's nostrils flared, and he was about to contradict when Medros silenced him with a fierce look. "You may now take him there. Secure him at the wall if necessary. Take him to the mine tomorrow. And," she added with a stare that made Lanar and Bayonor tremble, "next time you have to catch a prisoner, you would be well advised to avoid further damage."  
  
"Yes, my Lady," Medros forced himself to say, and, when she had left, he exhaled and tugged on the rope to lead the King down to the dungeon again. Lanar followed, mumbling to himself, while Bayonor had taken a different corridor.  
  
"I don't know what is on her mind," Lanar finally said, walking closer to the Lieutenant to avoid the King to listen. "He should be dead by now. He deserves it!"  
  
"Don't be a fool, Lanar, she decides and we follow her order."  
  
"They'll all expect it! It is..." He broke off. Medros made himself clear – no arguments.  
  
They reached the dungeon. The place still looked the same – the wide open door, the harness and the key to the cell on the ground – and Medros remembered the boy who had shaken him to wake him up. He could not even recall his face, and when he tried, the headache returned with renewed force. He longed for a rest and the loving hands of his wife.  
  
The torches at the wall needed to be changed for the night; the light was already dim. Medros pulled on the rope and made the King walk the last steps into his cell again. Lanar followed swift, handed him the key the King had dropped after freeing himself, and was about to take off the hood when Medros stopped him.  
  
"No, leave it. We chain him to the wall as ordered. Sit down," he commanded and stressed the order by pressing the King's shoulder. He gave in, sat on the bench, and only then Medros opened the right hand's cuff. Immediately his hands were greased with blood. The prisoner moaned quietly when the wrist was restrained again in a metal band at the wall. Medros did the same with the left hand. After that he took off hood and gag. Though Medros had caused it himself, he was taken aback by the look of the prisoner's face. The pale, sweaty skin was still bruised, the cheekbones crusted with dried blood, and as dirty as the rest of his clothing. His hollow eyes stared forward without seeing. He spat on the ground, but Medros knew it was not out of resistance but for the taste of the gag. The Lieutenant put it back in his pocket.  
  
"That's better." Lanar nodded with a grim smile to the chains leading from the wall to the handcuffs. "If we could leave him like that..."  
  
"Stop the chatter," Medros ordered, and Lanar opened his mouth to contradict when Bayonor entered the cell. "Do your work," the Lieutenant cut him off, and the young guard growled an unfriendly reply. "If you want to sustain your family any further, I'd better not hear this."  
  
Bayonor nodded and, with the help of Lanar, took care of the various scratches and bite wounds, but Medros could see his reluctance with every movement. He wanted to kill the King and put an end to the suffering of all of them. He agreed that it was a waste of time and men to hold Aragorn captive, but he would never openly doubt the Lady's decision. He had made enough mistakes with that man and would not lengthen the list.  
  
The King leaned his head against the cold stones and closed his eyes. He grimaced with pain at every touch, and clenched his teeth to avoid any sound. For the time Bayonor treated him he did not move. Medros could not help but admire the strength and stamina the man summoned up to attempt to escape every time his hands were unbound. Right now he looked beaten enough, but the Lieutenant knew this would be just for a short while. Recovered he would think of another possibility to flee the castle and ride or even run home.  
  
"Done." Bayonor did not conceal his disgust. Medros looked at the red coloured water in the bowl and made a step forward to put on the harness on the prisoner. "Why all that care?" the guard hissed on the doorstep, but he knew the answer before Medros looked up. "I go and fetch water for him to drink."  
  
* * *  
  
Still day 16, Minas Tirith  
  
The spell was broken.  
  
Lady Arwen let her head rest on her hands on the table and cried bitterly. Hope was gone like a candle that had burnt strong but only for a short while. Anger had risen, but was replaced by defeat. This had been the last glimpse of her beloved husband – the feeling of loss. As if he had been in reach for freedom and happiness, and then was torn away from that open gate. He could not pass it, and his hope diminished by the second that he would be able to return. During the fight she had almost seen him – though not in ways she could describe, but there had been more than just his emotions. There had been the rich smell of wood and soil, the whistling of leaves, and the presence of strong beasts. And, above all, his determination, his strength and his will.  
  
Now those impressions were gone. Emptiness remained, and it was as gruesome as a hard fall.  
  
Arwen told herself not to despair for there would be hope as long as Aragorn lived. Even though she did not know where he was he would be found. She must not give in her sorrow. Her hope lasted on Éomer and Faramir. She was determined not to wait in the City until her husband was found. There was more she could do.  
  
"Lady Arwen?" It was the soft voice of her maid, and Arwen slowly raised her head. "Shall I send the petitioners away?"  
  
"No, of course not." She rose, blotted her cheeks. "I will be there in a moment." "Very well, my Lady." She bowed and left.  
  
No matter who had captured the King, she would not linger and let the Kingdom stand alone until he safely returned.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 16, the castle, evening  
  
"He is and will be a threat!" Lanar exclaimed loudly and slammed his beer mug down so hard that the liquid spilled on the already greased table.  
  
"Stop it!" Bayonor warned him at once. "You drank too much. Go and sleep."  
  
"But will you... don't you agree?" the other guard demanded to know and reached with his hand across the table. Bayonor leaned forward. "It's a shame that we have to take care of him as if..." He raised a hand in lack of proper words.  
  
"Stop it, Lanar, it was a bad day, yes, and now it is over. You got a free day ahead of you, so, go now."  
  
Lanar mumbled a reply and, after emptying the mug to the last drop, bade Bayonor farewell and went to his room. Bayonor sighed deeply.  
  
"This is all wrong," he said to himself and only glanced at Vlohiri, who was on his way through the hall. He did not bother about the boy and his whereabouts. So many lads lived in the castle that it was hard to remember all their faces. But the thought made him stand up and look for his own wife and children.  
  
Vlohiri's heart almost jumped in his chest. He had feared that the Lieutenant would be in the hall with his friends, but obviously he had gone to bed early. All the things the boy had heard in the kitchen – from the maids and servants and from Narana – were swimming in his mind like pieces of carrots in a broth. The poacher – escaped – captured again – brought back chained and hooded – Lt. Medros losing a fight in the dungeon! It was all too much to grab a hold on within the hour he had worked among the plates and bowls. The servants all had told different stories about the prisoner's behavior and what he had done. The guard from the main gate, who was a hunter as well, praised the speed of his hounds and that without them the poacher would have escaped for sure. Others had contradicted since the prisoner had had no horse, but the hunter defended his opinion strongly. But they all were convinced that now the Lady of Ice had the right to sentence the captive to death.  
  
He reached the stairway to the dungeon, made sure he was alone, and quickly ran down the steps.  
  
"Aragorn?" he whispered, waiting at a save distance. No answer. "Aragorn?" He swallowed. Thinking about the awful actions the captive had taken it was not wise to step any closer, but Vlohiri had to see him. He stood on the tip of his toes at the bars, peering into the near darkness of the cell. "Aragorn?" He feared that the prisoner had been taken to another cell. He would not dare to search all the corridors at night.  
  
"Go away," came the reply with an urgency that made Vlohiri try even harder to see the man behind the bars.  
  
"The guards were about to kill you the servants say," he stated indifferent of Aragorn's misery. Still no answer. "The hunter said the hounds got you." He pressed his nose through the bars and could not help but shiver. The man was restrained to the wall, so that he could neither lie down nor lower his hands for the chains were too short. "You should not have tried to escape." Aragorn sighed lowering his head. "Narana says it was very generous of the Lady to let you live."  
  
"Yes, perhaps it was." Aragorn tried to shift on the bench. Vlohiri heard the clanging of the chains and soft moans.  
  
"But she can always change her mind..."  
  
"Why are you here, Vlohiri, as your mother called you?"  
  
"Why did you try to escape? The hunter said the hounds bit you... Would have bitten you to death if he had not stopped them. Is that true?" In the dim light Vlohiri saw the mouth of the prisoner twitch, but he got no answer. "They did bite you, right? Does it hurt – bad? I never get close to them. They snap!" Still Aragorn did not even look at him. The boy bit his lip and continued, "You would not be killed for poaching. The guards say poachers are here for three weeks."  
  
"Then my weeks will never end."  
  
"Answer my question!" Vlohiri suddenly demanded. "Why did you run?" He was sick of listening to Aragorn's misty words.  
  
"I just wanted to return home."  
  
"Where is your home?" His anger made way for his much bigger curiosity.  
  
"The White City."  
  
Vlohir's eyes bulged with surprise.  
  
"Really? You live in the White City? But..." He closed his mouth and frowned. "Only rich people live there. You are cheating me."  
  
Aragorn wetted his dried and chapped lips. His voice was low and exhausted.  
  
"Who says that only rich people live there? It is a normal city with workers, peasants, soldiers."  
  
"No." Vlohiri waited a moment in silence. He had heard a sound, but was not sure from which direction. When no further noise occurred he grabbed the bars again with both hands, steadying his view into the cell. "Narana says it is only for noble people and that no one is allowed to live there if the Steward forbids it."  
  
"Do you know that the Steward no longer reigns over Gondor?" he asked with so much sadness in his voice that Vlohiri frowned.  
  
"The soldiers say the King has returned. But... is that not the same? Some man who sits on a throne?"  
  
"Do you know the King's name?"  
  
Vlohiri squinted, trying to see the prisoner's face clearly. Did the eyes of the man shimmer with tears? He was feeling awkward and... tested. One guest of the Lady had done that with him before and laughed when he could not answer the question. He did not want to repeat this humiliating experience.  
  
"Only what the soldiers say – it's Ela... Ele..." The boy exhaled frustrated. "I don't remember it."  
  
"Elessar. That's how the Elves called him." Vlohiri saw the prisoner's chin drop to his chest, and, as it seemed, with great effort he raised it again, facing the boy. "Elessar of the Dunedain."  
  
"That does not mean much to me," Vlohiri answered stubbornly.  
  
"To Men he is known as Aragorn, son of Arathorn."  
  
Causing a squeaking sound the boy lost his grip. He stumbled backward, frowning, disbelieving. Then, when he was sure his surprise had gone unnoticed he returned to his place.  
  
"You say..., you mean..., you are Aragorn? That son of... You mean... the King?" The prisoner nodded slowly, but Vlohiri shook his head decisively. "No, this is not possible. The Lady would never do that! You are a poacher! You lie to me!"  
  
He ran off.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 16, the castle  
  
Vlohiri ran until he could no longer breathe and his sides ached. He did neither see the servants looking at him in surprise nor the boys gathering in the lower level of the northern wing. When they blocked up his way he came to a halt, catching his breath, coughing, the face streamed with tears.  
  
"Hey, scarecrow, we really missed you," the biggest boy snarled and shoved him aside with his big hand. The other four of the group laughed. Vlohiri stumbled back, his mind still running around like a caged-up rat with the idea that the captive in the dungeon might be no poacher. 'It cannot be!' a part of him screamed. 'He is a poacher and must be guilty! The Lady is just. They all say that!' But that other part, seldom heard of before, forced him to rethink. He was only ten years old, but he had seen injustice before. From normal people – father and son, maid and other maid. But then... how should he doubt the decision of the Lady? "Hey, come on, Flea, son of the imbecile! Do something!" Another hard push. Vlohiri fell on his knees, but even the pain caused no reaction. No matter what he did they outnumbered him five to one, and he had no chance against the biggest of them in a fair encounter. It was all in vain. "As crazy as your mother, huh?" the boy shouted at him, stepping closer for the next attack. Vlohiri looked up, unable to even contradict, and again, he felt that every word he would say was in vain. They would not let him go no matter how convincing or menacing he spoke. He was pushed against the wall and stayed down. His right shoulder was bruised, but he did not even flinch. Somebody was lying, and still he did not dare to think it was Lady Saborian, who was well respected. But then... that prisoner was a liar, and he had lied to him about everything. He was not better than the other prisoners in the dungeon, who yelled at him or talked gibberish! Tears welled up again. "Hey, get up!" The boy grabbed his upper arm, pulled him to his feet. Vlohiri stared at the floor.  
  
"Let him be," another said, sounding bored. "Let's get away before Narana finds out." And they strolled of, not without hitting the slender boy one last time. But it did not hurt anymore.  
  
Crying with despair Vlohiri sat alone in the corridor. So alone as if the whole castle was emptied of its people.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 20, Ithilien  
  
Dregan looked at the young man shouldering a little sack with water, bread, and a blanket they could spare. His wife had said that the wound hat not yet healed and that she did not think he would make it home, but on the other hand he was like a young bird fleeing the mother's nest as soon as he was able to spread his wings. They would not hold him back any longer.  
  
Faramir stood near the riverbed, the cold wind in his hair, the smell of the sweet water in his nose. He raised his head and squinted against the white sun. His arm still hurt and he was not able to move it fully, but this was not his worst thought. He hoped that the searching soldiers from Ithilien would meet him somewhere for he knew that his own strength would perhaps not last long enough. But he could not wait any longer. Winter was drawing near, the nights were freezing, and he feared that he would not be able to reach his home before it was too cold to survive in the wilderness.  
  
Faramir bade the couple farewell. He looked back once, and the old woman waved to him. He owned them his life, and they had taken good care of him. With a smile he turned, breathed deeply and climbed up the slope to walk westward.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 20, the castle  
  
Vlohiri worked harder than before for Narana, trying to quiet his mind, to focus on the simple task of washing the floors and cleaning the dishes, and being rewarded with an extra piece of bread or meat. They had had a feast in the castle, and all people present were cheerful and happy about it. Lots of mugs with beer and goblets with wine were emptied, and Vlohiri had served at the tables and was thanked by the cook and a servant that he had done his job well. For a short while he could enjoy the warmth of being regarded as a valuable member of the castle, but not soon after that night he was ordered by Bayonor to help out in the mine. He knew from the older boys that they had to carry water for the workers and deliver food at noon. But it was uncommon for a boy so young, and when Narana got word of it she complained to Bayonor, but the guard needed another boy for many were sick. The days and nights were cold now, and the winter was drawing closer.  
  
Bayonor put his big hand on his small shoulder.  
  
"It will be only for a few days, my son," he said apologetically and led him through the corridors to the eastern tower. A broad way was built to enter the mine from this side of the castle. Another way led directly from the dungeon's farthest tunnel to the entrance. "Have you ever been there?" the tall man asked when cold air swept through the open gate. Vlohiri shivered and shook his head. "It is not that bad, you will see. But keep away from the prisoners, I tell you. Some of them are mean – or even dangerous."  
  
"What shall I do?" Vlohiri asked shyly, for he was truly intimidated by the torch-lit darkness of the main entrance into the tunnels. Sharp stones almost pierced his soft shoes, and he sidestepped a large rock on his left side. The almost black walls of the tunnel glimmered with bronze and green- colored ore the further they got into it.  
  
"You will bring water to the workers," Bayonor explained and asked for his name. "Oh, so you are Flea, right?" The boy nodded, not daring to correct the guard.  
  
The tunnel became narrow to the left side but continued wide to his right. Men passed them by, all of them covered with dark grey dust, carrying pickaxes or shovels. Some of the men were shackled and mostly accompanied by other workers. Vlohiri stepped aside and glanced at them only for a moment. Their stare was fierce, and when the boy had walked for the length of the northern wing he understood. The labor was harder than anything he had seen or heard of before. The men sweated all over their bodies while trying to tear some stones out of the solid wall. It seemed that the men needed more strength to just swing the pickaxe than he would have to carry it. His imagination had never reached so far as to think of what he now looked upon. He shivered involuntarily. 'The mine' had always been just a word for him. He had no elder friend, and therefore the tunnel seemed to grow out of a nightmare.  
  
Two men approached and they had to get out of the way. The first, tall and lean, pulled a cart with stones. Sweat poured down his dirty face, and he looked tired, but his eyes suddenly gleamed with recognition. He wore a kind of harness with handcuffs at its sides, shackles, and was gagged with a piece of wood bound to the back of his head with cord. Vlohiri almost forgot to breathe. The prisoner was Aragorn, and the sight of him raised pity in his heart, pity he could not explain or understand. He could not help but stare at him. Should this be a King? Vlohiri had always thought Kings walked around in precious robes, even more precious than those of the Lady. The outer appearance of this man made it impossible to think of him as anything else but a poacher.  
  
"Don't stare!" A harsh voice from behind the cart startled the boy. It was Lt. Medros, and Vlohiri swallowed hard. His heart beat fast. Had he done something wrong? Would he be sentenced, too? Medros reached him and halted to set his eyes on him. "You shall not gape at the prisoners, lad! He is gagged because he uses bad language and he spits. Might even bite you! Now go about your work!" He exchanged glances with Bayonor and quickly followed the cart. "Hurry!"  
  
With soft pressure Bayonor led the badly trembling boy on.  
  
"Here." The guard halted at a little place, no more than five feet in diameter. Buckets stood at the wall, covered with wooden lids. Besides water some bread and vegetable in pottery was put on a small table. "You will take a bucket and a ladle..." Vlohiri did not hear the rest. His attention drifted to the captive he had just seen. He turned to gaze after him. He had bent his back and bowed to put all his weight in pulling the squeaking cart. The chains around his ankles rattled with every step, and though he was already a few feet away he could still hear his strained breathing. Medros yelled some commands, and Vlohiri turned to Bayonor. The guard's lifted eyebrows and angry look made Vlohiri shiver.  
  
"Sorry," he mumbled.  
  
"You shall listen, Flea. Now, take a bucket and a ladle and walk down the tunnels. Give every man who needs it to drink. Understood?" Flea could only nod. He was glad that he was not punished for his inattention. He took the first bucket and trudged through the tunnel, while Bayonor left the mine.  
  
Morning became noon, and still Vlohiri had not reached every worker. The tunnels were built in deeper than the castle was big, and at every place workers as well as prisoners demanded water and food. He ran back with the eighth empty bucket and was about to carry the next one when Medros grabbed him at his shoulder, and pulled him on his feet. Vlohiri was so startled he froze – big-eyed and open-mouthed.  
  
"Now this one," he ordered, and under his fierce stare the boy took a full ladle – careful not to spill a drop – to Aragorn. "If you make but one sound, prisoner, this will be it." Only then the gag was removed. Vlohiri, who did not dare look at the man, held the ladle so he could empty it and waited shyly for the next command. He felt as if a hammer would hit him any moment and he could not even make a step to avoid it. "All right, out of the way!" Medros shoved Vlohiri so hard that he fell on his side.  
  
"Do not hurt him!" Aragorn accused the Lieutenant loud enough that another worker turned his head, and Vlohiri's eyes widened. He quickly retreated to the bucket and lifted it, ready to flee.  
  
"I ordered you to remain silent, prisoner! Now... you be it."  
  
For a second Vlohiri met Aragorn's gaze. He gave him to understand that he should leave at once while Medros fastened the gag again.  
  
Vlohiri lifted the bucket higher in front of his body and ran away.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 20, the castle, evening  
  
When his shift was over Vlohiri ran as fast as his tired legs would allow back to the entrance. There, in the fading daylight and cold, he stood for a few minutes, breathing the fresh air, enjoying not only that his work was done for the day, but the simple fact of being out of the mine again. He now understood why usually only older boys were sent to work as water carriers. He could hardly bear the thought to come back the next day, but Bayonor had told him he would work down there for at least a week. Hungry, thirsty, and with his hands, feet and face dirty, he walked through the gate and back to the warmth of the kitchen. Narana had a cooking fire going, and he did not need to ask for a bowl of broth. With a pitying sigh she handed it to him as soon as he had washed his hands. Greedily he ate.  
  
"There is more if you want to," she said with her lenient voice. He looked up. Normally Narana was not generous with food, and he nodded hastily. After the second bowl he felt better, satisfied and warm. He fetched himself a cup of water and while he drank he remembered the second encounter with Lt. Medros and the prisoner.  
  
The chief of the guards had allowed Aragorn another ladle of water but no food. He had given no explanation, and Aragorn had stared at the guard so menacing that it was hard even for the boy not to dwindle. Medros had stood firm. If those looks had been arrows, both men would have been dead by now. Vlohiri had not dared to utter a word and gotten out of the way immediately. There were enough other workers he had to serve. But that feeling of pity had risen again, and now, when he was satisfied, it came up to him like a rush of guilt. He took a look around in the kitchen. Sure, Narana would be surprised about his appetite, but she was good-hearted enough to let him have some carrots and bread. With her permission he quickly hid three pieces each under his dirty jacket and left the kitchen after biding the cook good night.  
  
It was a bad game to find the best route from the kitchen to the dungeon in the eastern tower. He thought he would not make it, for one obstacle followed the other – two boys on strife; a guard, drunken enough to need the whole width of the corridor to find his way home, and a servant with both hands full of linens trying to make him help. Vlohiri excused himself with another order by Narana and quickly left. Sighing he reached the dark and deserted dungeon, waited a moment until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and hurried down the corridor. A voice in his head said that he was crazy (bringing a sentenced prisoner food) and stupid (he could still be caught), but he did not falter.  
  
"Aragorn?" He waited, silently praying that the cell was the same and that the man was not bound again to the wall. Otherwise he would not be able to help. He heard chains rattling, and his heart sank, but a moment later the bearded and dirty face of the prisoner appeared at the bars. He sighed loudly.  
  
"It is dangerous, Vlohiri, to come down here," Aragorn whispered, but shut up when the boy – grinning from one ear to the other – held up a carrot in one and a piece of bread in the other hand. He handed both through the bars, and the prisoner took it quickly.  
  
"I have more," Vlohiri announced in a low voice while he just heard the cracking of the carrot.  
  
"Where did you get it?" Aragorn asked between two bites.  
  
"In the kitchen."  
  
"But nobody asked when you took that food?" Another piece of bread was gone.  
  
"I'm a just a boy. It's expected that I snatch food. I'm always hungry. Maybe not like you, but..."  
  
"I do not want you to get into trouble – but, thank you anyway." It was a true smile, and Vlohiri returned it.  
  
"Don't you get anything to eat?" he asked when the last piece of food was gone.  
  
Aragorn put his hands on the bars and sighed.  
  
"Not today – no."  
  
Vlohiri's eyes widened with astonishment.  
  
"I would have starved!"  
  
"Be quiet," Aragorn hushed him at once, and the boy looked out for the stairway. Nobody came. From a distance, in one of the other tunnels, he could hear shouts, but they were not drawing nearer.  
  
Vlohiri turned to Aragorn again.  
  
"Who did this?" he asked pointing with his chin to the bandage around the prisoner's right wrist.  
  
"One of the guards."  
  
Vlohiri could not disguise his surprise.  
  
"But... why? I mean... you..." Biting his lips he evaded Aragorn's gaze.  
  
"You mean I deserve the wounds? Being bitten by the hounds because of my attempt to escape?" he asked softly. Vlohiri felt foolish again, even more because Aragorn did not accuse him.  
  
"I don't mean to..." He broke of again. This was too difficult. He felt split in two parts which were unable to combine again.  
  
"I understand."  
  
"No, you do not." For the first time Vlohiri openly contradicted and felt good and bad at the same time. Good because to the prisoner he could say what he thought, and bad because he took advantage of the situation. He grimaced with guilt, begging for forgiveness. "This is all wrong. I... today Lt. Medros lied." He chewed on these words like it was a hard piece of bread. "I mean, he said you would use bad language and spit, but this was all wrong! You never did that! The other prisoners do – sometimes. And they have no gags."  
  
"Calm down, Vlohiri, and lower your voice," Aragorn warned.  
  
"I'm sorry." No more than a whisper now. "I don't know what to think."  
  
"You could ask Medros."  
  
Vlohiri gaped at him.  
  
"No... I could never."  
  
"You fear him?"  
  
"Yes – almost everybody does," he added as an excuse and bit his lip again. "Do you?"  
  
"It is not the man I fear. It is his obedience."  
  
Vlohiri had never wanted so badly to be already grown up.  
  
"His obe... Why? I don't understand what you say," he complained, and stubbornly raised his chin. "You always speak in riddles. I thought only wizards do this."  
  
"You are right." Another fast-fading smile.  
  
"Right... with what?"  
  
"Wizards speak in riddles – sometimes." Aragorn sighed as if he was remembering something. Vlohiri waited. "Medros is dangerous because he does not think for himself." The boy made it clear with just a look that this did not help him at all. "He will do what Lady Saborian demands of him – without question."  
  
"He is the Lieutenant of the guard," Vlohiri said as if it was self- evident. "He has served her for a long time – even when she did not live here. What else should he do?"  
  
"Yes... what else should he do?" Aragorn prompted and could hardly stifle a groan. "I have to lie down. I'm so tired. Thank you for the food, Vlohiri. But," he stopped the boy already on his way out, "do not do that again. They might catch you."  
  
Vlohiri grinned and made for the stairs.  
  
* * * 


	4. Chapter 4

Day 24, From Minas Tirith south  
  
Éomer had set out with his most experienced men, those, who were able to find a deer's trace with keen eyes even after rain or drought. Men, who had served in those long years before and had survived the enemy's attacks. They were skilled and strong and reliable. Knowing the search might take long he had chosen to leave behind those men who had family. With a fading smile he remembered the complaints. He was proud of his men.  
  
Still he heard Lady Arwen's pleading to not rest until her husband – Éomer's friend – was found. The Lady had also told him about Faramir's missing, and the King of Rohan had frowned, unable to accept the fact as a coincidence. But Éomer had no time to spare; the Prince's guards were already searching for Faramir, and his task lay on another path. With the same determination he had shown throughout the war against Sauron's evil army, he had elaborated a plan to search the southern part of the kingdom and ride beyond its borders, if necessary, to find the King. The map of Gondor was lined with marks in his precise handwriting when he was finished. 'He is still alive,' the Lady had said, and Éomer was eager to believe it.  
  
Though the traces were old, the group from Rohan went to the place of the fight first and rode from thereon south, crossed the stream, and headed further south for five days. Weather was on their side, and their horses trudged through hard grass, and along riverbeds without delay. Along the ways the folks of this area had used for centuries they asked the peasants on the fields, and the people in the villages if they had seen a tall and lean man wearing clothes like a Ranger, but wherever the Rohirrim stopped the answers were the same – no one had seen the King. The further south they came the fewer people had ever seen the King since his coronation for he had had not yet the time to travel his whole kingdom. But the villagers were friendly and helpful, giving them water and food and shelter if it was needed.  
  
Éomer brooded over the rare coincidence of Faramir's and Aragorn's missing. Eowyn's messenger had reported that the horse of the Prince had returned, but when the riders searched the way the Prince might have taken, they found no traces of a fight. Cliffs lined the River Anduin, and Eowyn feared that her husband might have fallen into the depth. Éomer shook his head. Faramir was too experienced to fall off the cliffs if he had not been pushed. But if there had been no accident the question remained who had attacked the Prince.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 31, the castle  
  
Vlohiri had no clear recollection of how many days had passed since Aragorn had been brought to the castle. He knew day from night and autumn from winter, but his days did not bear many diversions so it was of no importance to count them. But he knew that he had been working in the mine for more than the few days Bayonor had promised because Narana had complained to the guard about the long hours Vlohiri had to serve in that cold and bitter place. The guard had not reacted but ordered the boy for another day to go and serve water and food.  
  
So it happened that Vlohiri saw Aragorn every day during his shift and recognized how deplorable the prisoner looked like. He still had to wear the harness, and the handcuffs remained, being only lengthened or shortened as needed. Every time the boy caught his glance Aragorn seemed to try to convince him that he would be able to go on. He would not give in, no matter how much his captors demanded. Lt. Medros forced him to do the hardest work – pulling the cart with stones, and carrying the wooden bridge on his shoulders on which, at both ends, the full buckets with water hung. And the prisoner was, for that long time, not allowed to speak.  
  
Vlohiri felt the pity raise to a point he could no longer keep still, but he did not dare to speak to Lt. Medros openly. He knew that this man would shove him aside (if he was lucky) or sentence him to work in the mine for all times (which was more likely). But before he could reach the decision to ask any guard for help he heard Bayonor talk to Medros.  
  
"I do not know why he is still here." The hissing, hateful sound made the boy shiver, and he did not dare to pass them with his bucket. He did not even breathe in the darkness. "He could as well have been sentenced to death by Lady Saborian! She was too generous to grant him his life. I, for my part, would not have done this. – He stabbed me!"  
  
"You were rewarded for your bravery, my friend, and I told you more times than I wanted to that you shall keep quiet about this! We only have to make him work as long as she does not command otherwise."  
  
Vlohiri swallowed hard and trudged away with his bucket when the two guards had left the tunnel's ending. But the question remained: He had seen other prisoners who were not treated as badly as he was – unless they refused to work more than a few seconds. No one of them was gagged all the time, and only few wore handcuffs. So, why was he treated worse than the others? 'Because he attempted to escape,' a voice in his head said. But Vlohiri recalled all the things he had heard about the prisoner – the talk of the guards one evening; that the prisoner had been brought to the Lady (which was a rare occurrence for everybody); the fact that a poacher before had only been sentenced to three weeks in the dungeon (even if it were four weeks, Vlohiri knew that he would have been gone by now); the denial of Aragorn and that he claimed to have been some place else when he was captured. Vlohiri could not push away the thought that this might be the strangest poacher ever imprisoned in this castle.  
  
Narana had once a night told him about the Lady's achievements and that under her supervision no prisoner had died in the mine. She had been glad to reveal her knowledge to him, and, while he ate another bowl of porridge, told him all about the mine, the ore, and the wealth of the family of the Lady.  
  
It was noon again, and Vlohiri set down the empty bucket – the ninth as he had counted (for he could count and was very proud of it) – and grabbed the pottery with bread and apples instead. His shoulders ached badly, and he hoped that his shift would soon be over. He did not know the time of day, but hoped that one of the guards coming in would simply release him. Turning he watched Aragorn arrive with another two buckets from the fountain. Medros trailed off behind, shouting orders to another guard disappearing in the northern direction, while this part of the tunnel was empty except for a worker taking water from the bucket. The prisoner arrived, telling Vlohiri with a shake of his head to not hesitate any longer, but Vlohiri waited until Medros caught up. Aragorn squatted to let the buckets be taken off. He looked weary, and closed his eyes for a moment of relief while the worker carried the full buckets to the wall and quickly, under Medros' menacing stare, returned to his work and out of the reach of the chief of the guards. His steps echoed in the hollow darkness.  
  
The Lieutenant looked at the boy.  
  
"Bring water. And you remain silent," he growled as he took off the gag.  
  
Vlohiri brought the ladle and glanced from Aragorn to Medros and back. The prisoner could judge by a look that the boy was up to something. He drank and kept the eye contact a little longer, telling him to keep quiet. Vlohiri might have done that. He was even thinking about backing out when Medros pulled the gag out of his pocket again.  
  
"Up!" the Lieutenant ordered harshly. Aragorn swallowed, breathed, and seemed too exhausted to walk the way back. "Right now, prisoner!"  
  
"He can eat first," Vlohiri said shyly but audible and put the ladle back into the bucket.  
  
"What?" Medros hissed, and the boy's heart sped up like a horse on flight. "What did you say?"  
  
"I said..." Vlohiri locked eyes with Aragorn. The man stared at him with his still shining grey eyes, urging him to shut up. Vlohiri lifted his gaze to meet Medros' stare. "I said, he can eat first," he repeated louder. He could not breathe. Something thick was in his throat; he feared it was his heart. Vlohiri swallowed, but it did not work. He could not even evade the Lieutenant's stare.  
  
"I say when a prisoner is allowed to eat," Medros decided in an icy tone that made the boy shiver. But he remembered what the cook had told him – about the Lady's justice, her will to improve the working conditions. It all came to his mind and he thought that the Lieutenant should know that too.  
  
"The Lady had said that all workers – prisoners or not – shall have water and food," Vlohiri quoted quivering, and hoped at the same moment that Medros would not kill him instantly. He looked like he would want to strangle him with his bare hands. Vlohiri stepped back. He suddenly knew he had gone too far and that his life hung by a thread.  
  
"You naughty little bastard! I will make you..."  
  
"Leave him alone, Medros!" Aragorn shouted.  
  
"And you will pay for this, too!"  
  
"He is just a boy with a sense of justice!"  
  
"You will remember this day, prisoner! And you, boy...!" Medros made a menacing step forward, but the left side of the wooden bridge connected with the back of his thighs, toppling him over. He hit the ground with a thud.  
  
"Run!" Aragorn shouted, and Vlohiri, frozen in mid his retreat, felt his legs move again, carrying him out of the tunnel, out of the mine and into the cold and bare garden of the castle.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 30, Ithilien  
  
Never before, not in the brightest sun and highest summer, not in all these years that he had set his eyes on the walls of his home had he been so relieved to see the old trees in front of the house, the colored windows and the banner of Ithilien flying high up in the wind. He sighed deeply. Exhaustion slowed his path, but he would make it before dusk. The cold wind crept through his cloak, and he shivered violently. Faramir had to pause for a moment, catch his breath. His arm still ached and he would need time until he could use a bow again or lead the sword with his right hand. What worried him most was that he still could not see who wanted to see him dead. The old foes had been killed, and the folks of Ithilien would not set out for war.  
  
The sun had set when Faramir climbed the slope. His breath was raspy now; he would not endure this much longer. He already stumbled more than he walked. The guard at the gate stirred.  
  
"Who goes there?"  
  
"Faramir," he shouted back, and instantly more guards left their posts, torches in hand, and met him half way.  
  
"My Lord, come, let me help you!" The first man reaching him pulled Faramir's left arm over his shoulder, the second took the sack and carried it upstairs. "Where have you been? We searched all over."  
  
Faramir was unable to do more then smile weakly. His legs were trembling with fatigue. It had been a march too hard for a wounded man, and he remembered all too vividly how often he had been on the verge of a breakdown. But the thought of coming home, being welcomed and embraced by the woman he loved had made him endure the long walk and the cold nights.  
  
"It was a long journey. Send someone for Eowyn."  
  
"It is done, my Lord, she is right here."  
  
Eowyn ran down the stairs, and with her blonde hair flying behind her and the long gown blown by the wind she looked elf-like to him. With a smile turned into a sob she greeted him, flung her arms around him and guided him up the last stairs into the main hall. He sank on a thick fur at the fireplace, exhausted enough to sleep, but excited to be home again.  
  
"Faramir, my love, I thought you were lost," she whispered and carefully stroked his haggard cheeks. He closed his eyes, letting out his breath. She kissed him, overwhelmed with happiness.  
  
"I will always return to you," he answered, pulling her softly down to kiss her again. "No matter how long it takes me."  
  
For a long moment the crackling of wood in the fireplace was the only sound. They both enjoyed their renewed company, laid beside each other, not disturbed by anyone. She brought him water to refresh him and wine to drink. A servant quickly carried a tray with food, but left it on a table nearby. The news of Faramir's safe return was already on its way from mouth to mouth; Eowyn could hear the cheers from afar. She smiled at her husband. For long days she had hoped he would return and had sworn to herself that she would not give up until his body was found, and now he had returned on his own.  
  
Getting up after a last kiss Eowyn could no longer conceal her thoughts.  
  
Faramir propped on his left arm and watched his wife, frowning.  
  
"I can see that something troubles you, my love. Share it with me."  
  
"I do not know how to say it." She indulged in his presence a few heartbeats longer. "The King is missing." Faramir rose, deep concern in his eyes. "It is been for thirty days now that the soldiers search for him, but they could only find three of his friends dead in the forest."  
  
He stepped closer.  
  
"There had been a fight?"  
  
"Yes, but the traces were hard to read. Lady Arwen sent a messenger to ask you for help."  
  
Faramir shook his head, disbelieving.  
  
"Did you send help?"  
  
"Yes, and told her about you been missing."  
  
"There has to be a connection. Not two of these incidents happen at almost the same time. Some evil wants to hold claim over us."  
  
Eowyn embraced her husbands once more.  
  
"We will not let it get to us all."  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 31, the castle  
  
With the rush of blood in his head Medros did not know what was worse – to be thrown into the mud or the fact that the boy had dared to doubt his decision. He was outraged when he got up. Turning around he saw that the boy had fled, but Aragorn had kept his position.  
  
"Leave him, Medros, he did nothing wrong."  
  
It took one step to bridge the distance and punch the prisoner so hard he fell on his back. Aragorn's hands were bound to the wood; he could neither block the attack nor steady himself. Medros did not care. He did not care even if the Lady herself had watched. Unable to stop himself he breathed down on the prisoner lying in the black dust of the tunnel.  
  
"I decide what is right or what is wrong," he hissed pressing his opponent down that it hurt. The King did not flinch.  
  
"Is that all you can do? Hit me while I'm defenseless?"  
  
"You will learn the lesson the hardest way you can imagine – and I will make sure that this brazen broomstick will learn it, too." Medros got up.  
  
"He is just a boy!" Aragorn shouted.  
  
Medros clenched his teeth, and this time he thought about the Lady and her opinion, but that did not keep him from kicking the man on the ground. He just let him alive.  
  
"He will learn to obey," he closed, breathless.  
  
Two of the guards had heard the quarrel and arrived. Looking puzzled they asked what should be done with the prisoner. Medros tried ineffectively to clean his tunic. Anger and embarrassment mingled in his features, but he kept his voice loud and strong.  
  
"He shall work till nightfall. Then I will take care of him. Right now, I have other things to do."  
  
Vlohiri reached the kitchen out of breath, crying like a little child and so afraid he could not speak. Narana left her place at the window where she had sewed a new apron and looked if she could help. The boy escaped into the farthest corner, hid under the big table and made himself so small that he could hardly be seen. Only his sobs were audible.  
  
"It is all right, Flea, calm down, take your time" she cooed him, but he did not move, only trembled violently. "I will see if..."  
  
At the same moment the Lieutenant entered the room like a very angry bear. A whip hung from his belt. Narana instinctively stood upright and in the Lieutenant's way.  
  
"Give me that lad!" Medros bellowed. "I know he is here! I must punish him!"  
  
"There will be no..."  
  
"Narana, do not try to tell me otherwise!"  
  
"I tell you to get out of my kitchen, Medros!" she answered still blocking his way.  
  
"You cannot keep him from being punished!"  
  
"You can tell me what he did wrong and I will see to his punishment. He usually works here. He should not be in the mine."  
  
"You are not..."  
  
"Tell me! Or we let the Lady decide."  
  
Medros gnashed his teeth.  
  
"As I said," he continued stepping back, but still piercing Narana with his glare, "I gave an order, and he contradicted. That is never heard of."  
  
"And will truly not be punished with your whip," Narana replied.  
  
"If it is not that – he will work ten more days in the mine. And that," he cut the cook of, "will not be reversed." He turned on his heels and was gone.  
  
Narana exhaled. Now she was shaking like the boy in the corner. With eyes full of tears he looked up to her from under the table.  
  
"Thank you," he stammered, "thank you." And broke into tears again.  
  
It took her some minutes to make Vlohiri tell her about the incident.  
  
"How many times have I told you not to object an order?" she finally asked him, giving him a cup of thin wine to calm him down. "Sometimes your mouth outruns your mind, lad."  
  
Vlohiri drew up his nose, clinging to the cup with both trembling hands.  
  
"But... you said the Lady is just. And he was not. She would not want that, right? The others got food, he did not. And he was so tired. I could not..."  
  
Narana shook her head, frowning.  
  
"Flea, these people are bad – they did bad things. Very bad. You should not pity them. If they worked as we do this would not have happened to them. Lt. Medros did what he thought was right."  
  
He rose, wiped his cheeks with the sleeves of his jacket and left dirty smears in his face.  
  
"Did you... did you ever hear that a prisoner was taken to the Lady?"  
  
"No." Narana was truly astonished. "Why?"  
  
"He... this man... this poacher... I saw him. He was... brought to her."  
  
"How do you know that?" The old suspicion was back in her voice, but this time Vlohiri went on.  
  
"I saw them – the man and the guards. They took him up to her. With chains and hood. Did you...?"  
  
"Well, no." She frowned. "She does not bother with this scum once she has sentenced them. She leaves this to the guards." Vlohiri drew up his nose again and nodded, waiting that Narana would make the next step herself. "You mean... this man, you speak of, is no poacher? Ah... well, I do not know." She shook her head again. "The Lady has her own head, I would say. She can rule as she pleases." She looked at him with her lenient but now concerned eyes. "Beware of the Lieutenant, Flea. He told you to work for ten more days in the mine. It might look like heavy punishment, but you should think about it. It is better than feeling the whip. Do not object him any further, understood?"  
  
"Yeah... and thank you."  
  
"You said that. Now, off you go! I've got work to do."  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 31, the castle, night  
  
The voice of reason in Vlohiri's head told him not to be too bold. The voice stopped him after he had hid some pieces of bread and two apples under the new jacket Narana had given him. He hesitated in the empty corridor, knowing that he would only need one more mistake and not even Narana would stop Lt. Medros from punishing him more severely than with work in the mine. His heart raced by the thought of the mean, more killing- look of the Lieutenant. He shivered involuntarily. 'It is foolish,' the voice said again. 'Narana said the prisoners deserve their sentences.' At the cross of two corridors he came to a halt. In his mind gruesome ideas formed of what Medros would do with him. His palms were sweaty, and yet – it was night. The guards slept, as well as Medros. He had seen the last three guards leaving the fireplace in the hall some time ago. Only the night watch would be near the dungeon and could easily be avoided. Vlohiri swallowed. The gallop of his heart was the only sound he heard. Ten more days in the mine were an unbelievingly long time for him. He could not think of it without trembling. But there would be a worse punishment if the Lieutenant found him at the poacher's door.  
  
Another minute crept away, and the cold wind made him shiver. He could turn and go to bed; he was tired enough to sleep where he stood. Or he could cross the corridor to the eastern wing and make for the dungeon's stairway. He tried to find the courage to make his legs move forward. Still he thought about the moment when he had opened his mouth to contradict the Lieutenant. He must have been crazy to expect that man to change his mind. He never would.  
  
Then he thought of Aragorn, and he suddenly realized his escape would have been impossible without his help. Slowly and with great care he crossed the corridor to head for the eastern tower.  
  
The weight of the food slowed him, and he checked the ways behind and in front of him to be sure he was alone. But there was no need to worry. The castle lay in deep sleep, and the boy made it safely to the cell.  
  
"Aragorn?" No more than a whisper. The shadows behind him were deep. He did not want to wake them. He still feared that Medros would suddenly step out from behind and grab his hair to pull him out. It seemed to be the worst nightmare. "Aragorn?" The light was too dim to look further into the cell. He heard moans, and then, after another wait that seemed too long for the boy to stand, a chain clanked. Vlohiri peered through the bars, exhaled with relief when he finally saw the figure in the dark sit up. "I brought you something," he announced as quiet as before. It took some more time – hours in Vlohiri's opinion – until Aragorn came to the bars. Though the boy wanted to smile that he made it this far he could not. The sight of Aragorn's face alone made him gasp. "I... I brought you something," he repeated and handed the prisoner the first piece of bread.  
  
"You should not be here," Aragorn said wearily. He looked completely exhausted.  
  
"It's no one around. I made sure."  
  
"Did Medros hurt you?" Vlohiri was too startled by the prisoner's compassionate tone to answer. He just stared at him. "Did he punish you? I feared for you."  
  
"I... I hid," Vlohiri stammered, "in the kitchen." He gave the prisoner an apple he had truly snatched before he had left Narana. "The cook... she made Medros go, but..." He saw the dark entrance of the mine before him; he could smell the dirt, the stones. Tears ran over his cheeks.  
  
"What is it?" Aragorn asked, and through his tears Vlohiri looked up into the man's eyes full of sorrow.  
  
"I... I have to... have to work in the mine... ten days, he said." When he reached up another piece of bread Aragorn gently touched the boy's fingers.  
  
"I'm sorry, Vlohiri."  
  
"I don't want to go there," Vlohiri sobbed, shaking his head. "It is... an awful place. And... and the Lieutenant... he will..." His voice trailed off. He leaned his shoulder against the door, and for a moment they both stood silent in their misery. Drawing up his nose, the boy looked at the prisoner again. "Did... did he... the Lieutenant... punish you?"  
  
Aragorn's mouth twitched, and his breathing was laboured when he answered.  
  
"Well, nobody hits the Lieutenant of the guard and gets away with it."  
  
"I know I should have kept my mouth shut." His chin dropped. "I'm sorry. So sorry."  
  
"Don't be sorry for what you did. You've got some courage, boy."  
  
"My mouth outruns my mind... That is what Narana says. I'm stupid."  
  
"No, Vlohiri, no – you have got a great heart. Not many people I know have it." The boy looked up to search the truth in Aragorn's eyes. He saw gratitude, too. "But even the bravest should know when to stop and wait."  
  
Vlohiri blotted his face with the sleeves.  
  
"I know. Narana said I shall not object. Not any more." He sighed deeply. "Did they bring you food... this time?" Aragorn's hands clutched on the bars as he grimaced with pain. "Aragorn... are you all right?" Without thinking he put his hands over the prisoner's, but could not steady him. He lost his grip and slid to the ground. "Please..."  
  
"Go now, Vlohiri." His voice was weak, and the boy pulled himself up at the bars to peer into the cell. He could only see the man's outstretched and shackled legs.  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"Go."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 32, the southern part of Gondor  
  
The King of Rohan felt as if he had never been on a mission more difficult to fulfill. They had ridden all known paths to the south, then turned west, crossing from southern villages to northern farms, covering most of the settlements in the plains, but still they had not even found someone who recognized Aragorn by the given description. Or had seen men with a prisoner between them. It was obvious that the men, who had taken Aragorn captive, must have brought him by horse or cart to their hideout. Given the fact that they could not make themselves invisible some people must have seen that group. They needed food and water. Éomer studied the map before him. Only a few villages – no more than a few houses at one spot with a noble family living in their great houses nearby – remained for their search. In the far west there was no more but a little village and one castle. He only knew the name of the noble lady living there – Lady Saborian. He had never met her nor did he know anything about her. He hoped that maybe she was able to help his search. He did not want to let his hope fail him, but little was left. He only had Arwen's word that she had felt him – weeks ago. Even if he had been alive at that time – he did not want to doubt that – he might be dead by now. It was a dreadful thought, and Éomer sighed before he folded the map and ordered the Rohirrim to mount their horses.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 32, the castle  
  
Noratis and L'Adarac were present when Lady Saborian entered the main hall with her son. Tebenor followed them and closed the door. When all sat and had wine and food at their places the Lady's glance wandered from one to the other.  
  
"Word goes that the search continues. Is this correct?"  
  
"Yes, my Lady," Tebenor nodded. "Though more than thirty days have passed Lady Arwen still believes her husband to be alive."  
  
"King Éomer of Rohan met Lady Arwen in Minas Tirith," L'Adarac continued. "My man told me that he set out with a number of Rohirrim to ride south." He put down the globlet and looked straight into the Lady's eyes. "It is quite obvious that the King of Rohan will pay you a visit. It might take him some time, but do you not think..."  
  
"If you propose again to kill the King, L'Adarac," Lady Saborian cut him off, "I advise you to keep your tongue in check. As I told you all the King will serve this castle. He already does."  
  
"Would you mind telling us?" Tebenor asked with a mocking undertone. "Maybe there are some skills in him..."  
  
"I said he will be guarded here. You do not need to know more."  
  
"The treason connects us all," L'Adarac objected. "If you did not kill him – where is he then? I do not see him serve the table."  
  
Tebenor smirked. The Lady stared the grin out of his face.  
  
"His work lies elsewhere. It truly would not be wise to let him walk around in the castle."  
  
"But he does work?" Tebenor sounded disbelieving. "He did not resist?"  
  
"He was given no room for resistance," she replied coolly.  
  
"When we all saw him he was fighting with all strength he had. How did you break his will?"  
  
The Lady was obviously annoyed with the subject.  
  
"The Lieutenant of the guard knows ways to make a prisoner work." She thought about the incidents - the attempt to escape and the struggles the guards had to endure until the harness had been used. With the limited freedom of movement even a King was no longer able to resist.  
  
"He did not attempt to escape?"  
  
"He did not succeed."  
  
"I let my men talk to some villagers. The most not even knew that Aragorn was proclaimed King or that he vanished. And truly no word reached anybody that he is here," L'Adarac stated and emptied his goblet. "We better see that it stays that way."  
  
When the noble men had left Sadur still stood at the door, looking at his mother.  
  
"There is a risk that cannot be denied," he said cautiously.  
  
She spun around.  
  
"If I had wanted to see him dead I would have ordered it before. So do not question my decision."  
  
"Even if I do not, the others will. Noratis seems to be the weakest among them, and if the King of Rohan truly searches every spot he will meet Noratis, too."  
  
"Noratis once killed a maid in his own house. He owes me more than just his gratitude for my help to escape from Minas Tirith. He will do as he is ordered." She challenged Sadur with her stare.  
  
"Do not question my loyalty, mother. But you should bear in mind that some people might have seen the King. And Éomer is his friend. He will not rest until Aragorn is found – dead or alive. So he will ask everybody he meets."  
  
"I do not fear his visit. There are places in this castle where you could hide horses and men if necessary. There is enough room – even for a King."  
  
Sadur bowed and left.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 35, the castle  
  
The whole day his heartbeat did not calm down. He fled every minute it seemed, but still the Lieutenant was always behind him like a walking threat. Vlohiri did not try to breathe when the big man passed him, and more often than not Medros bellowed at him, shoved him aside or ordered him to work faster. Every time Vlohiri obeyed and dodged away under the outstretched hand, hurrying as much as he could. He said not a word; he ran instantly. It was a horrible moment when Medros came up to him to fetch water – and the bucket was empty! Though he was exhausted Vlohiri ran like a deer on flight to change the buckets. He knew that Medros would not be satisfied – no matter how fast the boy worked. And though he hated the work in the mines he told himself that it was better than being whipped.  
  
Again he carried a heavy bucket through the hardly lit tunnel, careful to not spill the water. He might have cried of exhaustion and pain in his whole body, but his eyes remained dry. He knew that he was not the only one who suffered under Medros' cruel decisions. He stopped and looked back. The voice made him shudder and he hurried on. A worker on the right side called for him, and Vlohiri almost jumped. He handed the man the ladle and waited restlessly to move on.  
  
"Wait!" Medros yelled, and the boy trembled so badly he almost dropped the ladle he just got back. He swallowed anxiously and was close to fleeing when he saw the angry face of the big man again. "Here... give him water." The boy hurried to oblige while Medros opened the gag of the prisoner. Intimidated Vlohiri avoided to look at Medros or Aragorn, who spat on the ground the moment the gag was gone. He just saw the long, rolled up whip hanging at the Lieutenant's side, and hoped he would do everything right. He did not want to anger Medros any further. He had made a mistake and had been punished for it. One more false step could mean the end of him. He knew that the mighty man could whip him if he wanted – even to death. And as he saw it, Medros would even enjoy whipping him in front of Aragorn. Narana was far away, and no complaint would ever reach the Lady. Vlohiri had only glanced at her a few times. Enough to know who she was, but he had never got close to her or her son. In the hierarchy of the castle he was the lowest member, easy to neglect, for he had neither father nor mother to protect him. He knew this now, and he feared it would never change, even when he was older. It was a depressing thought.  
  
He put the ladle back and for a second he exchanged glances with Aragorn. He saw pity, sorrow, and, more than anything else, pain. He had to look away, and quickly took the full bucket to hurry into the opposite direction. Medros gagged the prisoner again, made him go on, and Vlohiri could not help but to stop and gaze after them. For a moment he was safe.  
  
"Hey, you, over here!" Vlohiri turned and followed the call. Two prisoners waited to get water. "Afraid?" the stout man asked with a worn-out smile. The boy found no words, just nodded. "Will always be. Get out of his way." He gave the ladle to the second man. "Drink! The last time." And when the boy's eyes widened, he added with relief, "Yeah, last day in this rotting hole! I make for the borders of her land right tomorrow morning."  
  
"You will go home?"  
  
"I counted the days, lad. Yes, tomorrow I will be a free man again."  
  
The ladle fell back into the bucket. The men took up the pickaxes again. Vlohiri walked on, thinking that Aragorn's weeks would not come to an end.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 36, the wilderness in the south of Gondor  
  
Winter came swiftly now. Cold, piercing winds with snow and icy drizzle blew in their faces. The men drew up their hoods and tightened their cloaks, but the bitter bites of stormlike waves made it almost impossible to move on. Hands and feet were so cold they could no longer feel them, and only their experience in the wilderness allowed them to survive. The horses' faces were covered with snow and ice, and their breathing was labored. The hard soil bore slippery spots where water had frozen, and more than once they had to slow down to find a safe way.  
  
Éomer knew his men could endure cold and privation, but their ride had been long, and both men and beasts were too exhausted to go any further. He had to turn and ride back to the village they had left in the morning, hoping to find a dry hut and hay for the horses. He despised the thought that their search would be delayed, but he could not help it. They would be no help for the King of Gondor if he and his men were too sick or weary to go on.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 36, Minas Tirith  
  
Faramir entered the main hall of Lady Arwen's home and was rewarded with a warm welcome by the Lady herself.  
  
"I was delighted to hear about your return! Are you feeling well?"  
  
"Yes, my Lady." Faramir took off the wet cloak with his left hand, and sat near the fireplace. Outside the weather had turned, and the gusty winds were accompanied by rain, turning into snow. He was glad to have reached the White City before nightfall. Lady Arwen handed him a goblet of wine. "Thank you. Any news from the King?"  
  
"Not yet. Éomer will send a messenger as soon as he finds him." She tried a feeble smile and sat opposite to him. "It might take days – even weeks." She avoided his glance.  
  
"They will find him... or my men will find him."  
  
"Lady Eowyn already sent men to help. This was very generous of her. They rode north, but I have no word from them."  
  
"But I, too, did not come alone. We will see what we can do. Éomer rode south?" She rolled out the map for him and explained the routes the Rohirrim would take. "There are only few people living in the wilderness south of the mountains and far away from each other. Small villages and farms. If the captors made their way through this land they might not have been seen." He concentrated on the map again. "We will cross their way north and south and make sure that no farm is left out, no hunter or man of the woods left unquestioned." His encouraging look did not reach Arwen.  
  
"The people begin to think it is hopeless. They already mourn him, I fear." She spoke in a low voice full of sorrow. "He has been missing for forty days now."  
  
"But you said you could feel he is alive. And as long as you can feel him, there is hope, my Lady."  
  
"There is only darkness now – a hole, deep and black. I cannot look through it, cannot reach Aragorn anymore." Within a wave of sadness she rose. "I still hope that I would know when he is killed. But I..." She paused and her voice trembled when she went on. "I lost him three weeks ago. For a short while I felt him with all his strength and even more – I had the impression of... wood and soil, of beasts."  
  
"Hounds perhaps?" Faramir asked calmly.  
  
"I do not know. I was not given that power to see."  
  
"Please, continue."  
  
"There had been a fight and... he lost it." She closed her eyes for a moment to regain control. Her voice was only a whisper. "After that I felt like... torn apart. It was an awful feeling. So much sorrow and loss... And despair."  
  
Faramir rose and gently touched her shoulder.  
  
"There is hope, my Lady. They did not kill him during the first encounter in the forest, and they will not have killed him when he lost that fight you felt. There is a reason behind this evil doing, and we will find out." She turned to him, trying to believe the words. "I was attacked on my way home... a hooded man threw me off the cliffs. I could not see his face, but I am sure he wanted to kill me. There has to be a connection between these two occurrences (not "occurences"). My Lady, can you think of anything that happened in the White City since the day of the coronation? Did the King antagonize someone?"  
  
"Aragorn was welcomed here. I cannot think of anyone who wants to harm him."  
  
"Who knew he would go for a hunt?"  
  
"It was no secret at all. Aragorn had spoken about it for some time." She frowned. "I do not see that anyone from the City would want to do him evil. He is well respected."  
  
"Respect can be envied. There are men out there who do not want to see him rule Gondor. These are the foes we have to find. There are some people I want to talk to. I will ride out tomorrow. The whole Kingdom shall know that the search is not over."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 38, southern Gondor  
  
Éomer and his men were weary with fatigue, hunger and thirst when they reached the little village again. The first winter storm had delayed them more than he had expected, and the people had closed their huts against the fierce cold. When the King asked where they could rest for the night, he was shown the way up the hill to a bigger house with pillars in front of it, bearing curved markings embedded in black and gold signs. When they reached the entrance and dismounted, they were greated by a friendly man in his forties, well dressed and with good manners. They had not seen him before, and though Éomer still worried about their delay he found it quite pleasing to meet a man of higher standing in hope to get an answer that would finally lead him to his friend. He asked Éomer and his men to sit with him at the fireplace, and the King gratefully accepted.  
  
"Tell us your name, my friend," he then asked when seated near the fire.  
  
The head of the household handed him a goblet of wine.  
  
"My name is Noratis, son of Norinmor."  
  
"I am Éomer, and these are my men, the Rohirrim. We thank you for your hospitality."  
  
"You are welcome, Éomer, and your friends as well. You can stay for the night – or longer, if the weather stays as bad as it is. There is enough room for you adjacent to this one. And I can see that your horses are tended, too."  
  
"This is very generous, but we will not linger more than necessary, Noratis." He sipped the wine and put down the goblet. "Tell me, Noratis, did you see a man on your lands – tall, lean, brown hair, and grey eyes? He was clad like a Ranger. Maybe accompanied by other men?"  
  
Noratis frowned as if he was trying to remember. Éomer eyed him closely, not sure how to interpret the man's haggard features.  
  
"No, I am sorry, but I cannot recall meeting a man of that description."  
  
"It must have been some time ago that he passed through here. At the end of autumn, I suppose."  
  
"He is a friend of yours?"  
  
"A good friend of mine, yes. He went hunting and did not return."  
  
"Did he carry something special with him – something that goes by his name?"  
  
"A sword – a long sword with engraved elvish signs, and a silver chain with a jewel," Éomer explained. "If you had met him, you would have seen them."  
  
Noratis shook his head slightly in regret.  
  
"I am truly sorry to be of no help for your search. I can only serve you wine and food and hope that you will find your friend elsewhere. Are you sure he is still alive?"  
  
"I will not give up searching for him until I see him."  
  
Noratis bowed and went to fetch bread and wine for Éomer's riders.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 40, the castle  
  
Vlohiri lived through an almost lucky day. Medros did not show up in the mine to torment him, a fact that lifted his heart as much as Narana's fresh bread. It also meant that Aragorn was allowed to have food as well as all the others working in the tunnels. The boy smiled slightly when he handed him a piece of swede, but stood in shocked silence when the prisoner thanked him. Lanar did not even look, but talked to a second guard he had just met, and the feeble smile returned to Vlohiri's face.  
  
After his work he got a piece of meat from Narana, and though he did not find it tasty, he ate it. His appetite grew with every day. He even ate some porridge left over from breakfast, and then, with two apples and bread, directed his steps to the eastern tower. Behind the main entrance to the hall he was about to evade in the shadows when a lean man, not taller than one of the older children, stumbled over him in his haste. Vlohiri dropped his prey, the man cursed and kicked the apple aside.  
  
"Stupid brat!" he bellowed and hurried on.  
  
Vlohiri quickly collected the apples and bread and escaped. At the next corner, in the shadows, he halted and gazed after the man, whose garment was covered with snow. He was clad in warm boots, thick looking trousers and a warm coat. And he looked like he had been on a hard and long ride. The man had stopped at Medros' bench and exclaimed that he had to see the Lady immediately. His urgent tone made the Lieutenant rise and with him he quickly headed for the private quarters. The boy exhaled and made his way to the dungeon. He had to wait until the guard on duty passed by, then hurried down the stairway to deliver a late supper.  
  
"You are very friendly, Vlohiri, as your mother called you," Aragorn said in his low and smooth voice, and the boy somehow felt great to be praised like that. "You might not have noticed... I got food today."  
  
Now a grin broadened on Vlohiri's face.  
  
"I did notice," he replied nodding foolishly.  
  
Aragorn ate the rest of the apple, then asked:  
  
"Does your father work in the castle, too?"  
  
The grin faded.  
  
"I have... I don't know him. My mother works here."  
  
"What does she do?"  
  
"She is a maid." Vlohiri did not want to talk about her, so before Aragorn could open his mouth, he asked, "Do you have a wife?"  
  
The prisoner sighed deeply and let a moment pass before he answered sadly.  
  
"Yes, I am married to the most beautiful Elf in Middle Earth. Her name is Arwen. She lives in the White City with me. - Have you ever heard of the Elves?" The boy shook his head slightly, and Aragorn sighed again. "Why do the good times only last a short while?" Vlohiri did not know what to answer. He lived through good times when he did not need to work and had enough food to fill his stomach. "Have you always lived in the castle?" the prisoner asked in the lasting silence.  
  
"Yes. I have to go to the village from time to time – to fetch milk and carrots or bring something to the saddler or smith. But then... I live here. And you? Did you always live in the White City?"  
  
"No, I was raised in Rivendell – a home where Elves lived." And when he saw the boy frown he added, "I am no Elf, if you thought that. But I spent all my childhood with them. I had many friends there."  
  
Vlohiri's heart sank.  
  
"I have no friends here," he whispered. "They don't like me at all."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The other children. The boys." He swallowed. Never before had he told a grown-up about his misery. "They tease me.. call me names. Punch me... but I can run faster and know good hideouts."  
  
"That is why you came to the dungeon in the first place?" Vlohiri nodded, staring at the floor. "So you get around in the castle, I suppose."  
  
The boy nodded, and answered with more self-confidence.  
  
"Yes, I spend some time strolling around. I know some really secret ways, and I can climb! I know how to get up the towers from the outside. Well, not the southern tower, it's more a ruin. But the others..."  
  
"Please, lower your voice!"  
  
They both listened holding their breath. When Vlohiri turned back he saw Aragorn smile.  
  
"Sorry," he said and a similar smile tugged at his lips.  
  
"I knew some secret ways in Rivendell, too. If I had to avoid some work I did not like to do."  
  
"Like changing linens." Vlohiri grimaced. "I don't like that. But cleaning the dishes is okay. Narana is..."  
  
"Hide!"  
  
On Aragorn's command Vlohiri jumped away from the door and hastened to the far end of the tunnel, his heart beating fast enough to burst his rib cage. He squatted in the shadows, trying to melt with the cold wall in his back. He hardly breathed for Lt. Medros was coming down the stairway. And with him came three guards.  
  
"Open that door!" he ordered loud enough to make the walls tremble, and Vlohiri made himself even smaller. Closed his eyes. "We take him down there. Right now!" Boots drew nearer, halted at the cell. Others moved on into the opposite direction. "Turn and kneel, prisoner! We will not take any chances with you."  
  
"And what kind of evil has now grown in your mind, Medros?" Aragorn asked in a tone that bore more superiority than Vlohiri had ever heard. "Or does the traitress wait again to show me to some other guests?"  
  
"I said, kneel! Or we will make you!"  
  
"You are still afraid of opening the door, Medros, aren't you? You should send someone down with more courage."  
  
Vlohiri squeezed his eyes shut. 'Even the bravest should know when to stop and wait.' Why did he not follow his own words?  
  
The Lieutenant fumed.  
  
"You will see my courage, prisoner!" The key was put into the lock and turned. Vlohiri was so afraid he almost cried. The door opened. Boots marched in, and the boy swallowed hard at the sounds of punches and the rattle of chains. A bitter groan followed muffled screams. "Now we will take you where you belong," Medros growled. The clanging and slurring steps echoed for a short while and were gone suddenly.  
  
Vlohiri sat in the quiet darkness, not knowing for how long. He could not move a muscle. He feared that more guards would come into the dungeon, search it all over for they had found out that a boy must be here. But the quietness stretched to a time when he thought it would be safe to leave his hideout. Then, as if some evil spell was spoken against him, Medros and the guards returned.  
  
"Take everything out! Straw, blanket – everything! I want this cleaned out right now!"  
  
"This isn't not our work!" another voice protested.  
  
"It is now." Medros' heavy steps trailed off, but Vlohiri had to wait until the guards had finished sweeping the cell, and his heart sank when he finally passed the open door. He felt miserable and could not explain it. They had taken him to another place and he could not find any reason why this should have been done. Except for one – he was taken to be...  
  
Vlohiri swallowed and shut his mind of. He did not want to think about this possibility.  
  
* * * 


	5. Chapter 5

Day 41, the castle, morning  
  
The castle seemed to shine in the clear morning sun, its dark grey stones stood majestically in the cold morning breeze, leaning against the mountain slope where they came from. The weather had improved during the night though the wind was still freezing cold and sucked all warmth out of them. The horses of Éomer and his Rohirrims trudged through the fresh snow crunching under their hoofs. The village at the foot of the castle was bigger than Éomer had expected. The people they passed by stared at them, and the King ordered his men to dismount and talk to them before they entered the castle's main gate. When he dismounted he was greeted with respect but caution. An old man glanced greedily at his horse.  
  
"Have not seen that in quite a while," the old man said squinting. "You come from far away, right?"  
  
"Yes, my friend, we are riders from Rohan."  
  
"Riders from Rohan - quite a league away. Beyond the mountains. I've never been there." His eyes narrowed even more. "What brings you here? Want to buy ore? No ore in Rohan?"  
  
"Ore? You've got a mine?"  
  
The old man sniggered, and Éomer had to conceal a smile.  
  
"You know nothing, hey, rider from Rohan? The Lady got the biggest mine in western Gondor. Many workers bring it up. It is sold all over the land." He shook his baldhead."Many riches come from the ore."  
  
"Your village seems to prosper," Éomer nodded.  
  
"Now that the war is over, yes. We have a bigger forge now."  
  
"Did you see a man in your village? Some time ago, maybe before the winter came? He is tall and lean, has brown hair and beard, and he was clad like a Ranger – tunic and leather boots." The man frowned, and the King quickly added, "He might have been mistaken as a... an intruder." It felt strange to say that about the King of Gondor, but the features of the old man lightened up.  
  
"Well, no, no, we had no intruder. We just had a poacher here some time ago. But I'm sure the Lady has thrown him off the lands by now."  
  
"A poacher? Tell me about him."  
  
The old man sneezed.  
  
"Not much to tell. Lt. Medros and his men caught him in the woods." He pointed westward. "He shot a deer." He shrugged. "He was sentenced, that's all."  
  
"A tall man, you say? And brown hair? A beard?"  
  
"I cannot say. Tall he was, yes. But when they led him through that day he was hooded."  
  
"Hooded?" Éomer repeated with surprise. "Anything else?"  
  
"Of course, rider from Rohan! He would not have walked this way if he was not shackled, right? And they had bound his hands to his back. Well, the hounds had gotten quite a bite out of him. Would have bitten him to death, I think. Bled all the way..."  
  
"Hounds bit him?"  
  
"Are you deaf? I just said that! And some of that young folk made him stumble." Another snigger and sneezing.  
  
"What then? What happened with him?"  
  
The old man shrugged.  
  
"They brought him back to the castle. The dungeons are deep and quiet. Makes them all shudder. He will truly regret his deed."  
  
Éomer took off his helmet.  
  
"Did he bear anything special on him? Something you remember?"  
  
"No... no, nothing. His clothes were shreds, I'd say." He sniggered again. "A poacher, all right?" With a gesture of indifference, he turned and left.  
  
Éomer exchanged the information with his riders. They had heard the same from other villagers, but none of them had seen the man before. No one could describe the man's face. And his garments had had no signs that he could be the King.  
  
With the reins of their horses in hands they reached the main gate. A guard with a spear in his hands eyed them closely and blocked the way.  
  
"Who are you?" he demanded to know, and Éomer introduced himself and described his friend. The man's face brightened. "Yes, Éomer of Rohan, I saw such a man. He really had a mean face – dirty all over. And his clothes – all shreds!" He shook his head. "I knew at once he was a thief! He killed a deer in the Lady's forest. I sent the hounds to catch him." His breast seemed to swell with pride. "They got him fast, I can tell you. Would have bitten him to death. But the Lieutenant said I should keep them in check. What I did."  
  
"Is it usual to send the hounds?" Éomer asked trying not to sound disgusted.  
  
"Of course." Another proud look. "They are trained for that. And they would bite to kill – they are very good!"  
  
"But the Lieutenant forbade it?"  
  
"It's the Lady's order, sire. In former times such a man would not have survived the attack, but Lady Saborian is very generous."  
  
"Did you see anything you would recognize – a jewel around his neck, a ring – anything?"  
  
"No, sire, as I said, he really had a mean look. I don't think it was your friend." The man's expression turned from eagerness to regret. "Sorry, but I really do not think you will find your friend here, sire."  
  
"Thank you anyway," Éomer said with a slap on the guard's shoulder. He turned to his men. "It is a start," he said with a hint of excitement. Then they walked up the bridge. A tall and stout man awaited them.  
  
Lt. Medros had done everything as ordered, but he still felt uneasy about the coming of the riders of Rohan. He greeted the King with a bow and introduced himself.  
  
"What takes the King of Rohan to Deremonor?" he then asked and kept his voice low and formal. They entered the main hall. "Are you interested in buying ore?"  
  
"I already heard about the riches of the mine. The Lady is fortunate to have the ore for trading." "Indeed. If it is not ore, what else can be of such interest worth the long way?"  
  
"We are searching for a friend of mine."  
  
Medros kept his face open and friendly, but concentrated on what he answered when the King finished the description.  
  
"I do not think he passed through here," he said with due regret.  
  
"He wore a brooch, silver, with a leaf in it," Éomer urged, "and a chain with a jewel and a silver ring on his left index finger. Are you sure you did not see him? It might have been before the winter. And he might not have been alone."  
  
"My Lord, as the Lieutenant of the guard I would know if any stranger passed through the Lady's lands."  
  
Éomer let his hand drop to his side. He took a deep breath.  
  
"I heard from one of the villagers that you caught a poacher some weeks ago. He fits the description."  
  
"That is true. But he has already been thrown off the lands."  
  
"Indeed. Well, then, where did you take him to?"  
  
"South, my Lord. To the border of the Lady's land. That was two weeks ago. He might have traveled some way in that time."  
  
"He might." Éomer took a look around. "Is it usual that a poacher is not only handcuffed but hooded when you bring him in?"  
  
Medros stood firm.  
  
"He was fighting us, my Lord, and it seemed a measure to calm him down. I did not want my men to be harmed."  
  
"I understand. And the dogs? Do you always take them with you?"  
  
"I do not see any reason to explain our ways of dealing with a poacher, my Lord."  
  
Éomer breathed deeply. There was no way to make this man speak. If he pressed the subject too hard, he would not even get further into the castle. He refrained to his good manners.  
  
"If it is granted, I would like to talk now with Lady Saborian."  
  
"Of course, my Lord. Please, wait. I will send a servant to announce you." Medros turned on his heels and ordered a young man to inform the Lady about the visitors. Lanar and Bayonor waited at the eastern entrance to the hall. They had strict order to not let the men from Rohan walk through the castle unguided and, more than that, alone. Though there would be no sign of the King's presence left, the Lady did not want any stranger to talk with the maids and servants without the intimidating presence of Medros and the guards. Medros returned to the King of Rohan and offered wine and food for him and his men. When he saw no servant at once he called out to the boy, whom he had seen at the stairway. He approached with a shy, almost fearful expression and seemed glad that Medros only ordered him to bring a pitcher of wine and some breakfast from the kitchen.  
  
Medros was no man of conversation, so he answered Éomer's questions as shortly as he could without being rude, but he was glad when the Lady entered. She wore a precious blue gown with silver laces and fitting shoes. Her hair was draped over her shoulders, and she greeted Éomer with a broad smile.  
  
"Welcome to Deremonor, Éomer, King of Rohan."  
  
Éomer bowed.  
  
"Thank you, Lady Saborian. We are grateful for your hospitality. It is a pity that a matter of urgency brings us to your house."  
  
"I will help if I can."  
  
The King gave her the description of Aragorn, and the Lady listened, but shook her head.  
  
"We had a poacher here some weeks ago, but he has already been taken off my lands."  
  
Éomer could not read the woman's face, but he truly was not convinced. Coincidences like that of a poacher and the King looking alike were hardly heard of.  
  
"If you do not oppose my men and I would like to have a closer look at the castle's rooms."  
  
"Though I do not see any reason, I will grant your pleading."  
  
"We do not know what happened to my friend. He might have lost his memory and found a place to work in your castle. You might not even know that it is him."  
  
Lady Saborian smiled coolly.  
  
"It is a very polite way to say that you do not trust my word, but ..." She raised a hand to quiet his objection, "... I do not mind your distrust. You have ridden far from home in your search. I will see that your men are helped by my guards."  
  
"Very well, my Lady." Éomer bowed and gave a short nod to his men. They rose from the benches. Medros made sure every Rohirrim had a guard from the castle in their company before they left the main hall. He accompanied the King to the northern wing.  
  
The King had seen people shy away from him because of his armour, his intimidating presence, or just because Rohirrim were known to be aggressive. But when he met the inhabitants of the castle he sensed more than shyness. A servant looked at him with big eyes when he gave him the description of the King and did not answer. He simply gaped at him.  
  
"Did you see this man?" Éomer repeated forcefully, and the young servant finally shook his head and left the room hastily. The King watched him with a frown. The next person was a stout maid who carried a load of baskets into the pantry. She almost dropped them when spoken to. Éomer caught the falling pile, and she thanked him with a feeble smile. Upon the question about the King of Gondor she uttered a short 'No' and quickly returned to her work.  
  
Éomer let out his breath impatiently. With Medros at his side, always watchful, always with a stern face, they walked through the whole northern wing and met many servants and guests of the house. But no one had obviously seen the man Éomer described. Not even the man, who was called a poacher and who had been – according to Medros and the Lady – thrown off the lands.  
  
A tall man in his forties, clad like a smith, was about to leave the kitchen when Éomer called him to wait. Again he described the King. The smith looked at him, then quickly at Medros. The Lieutenant's face was an open warning not to say anything wrong. Growling Éomer grabbed the man's sleeves and pulled him close.  
  
"You answer to me! And I asked you if you saw that man!"  
  
"But... I... ," the smith stammered, and Medros cut in,  
  
"Sire, with due respect, but if this man did see nothing you cannot change that by throttling him."  
  
Éomer let go.  
  
"Answer my question!" he repeating breathing heavily. "Right now!"  
  
"I saw nothing – no man, not the description. Honestly."  
  
"What about the poacher that was caught? You work down there in the main yard, do you not? How can it be that you did not see him?"  
  
Intimidated the smith bowed.  
  
"I do work there, sire, yes, but the poacher you mention, he was hooded. How could I say what his face looked like?"  
  
The King of Rohan made a gesture of release, and the smith hurried down the corridor.  
  
"Is it possible, Lt. Medros, that these people are frightened?" he said with an effort not to be rude.  
  
"I would not see anyone frightened if they keep telling the truth," Medros answered politely.  
  
"Take me to the dungeon."  
  
"As you wish." Medros even bowed as he turned on his heels, and Éomer could not say if the Lieutenant was smiling inwardly.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 41, the castle, evening  
  
The upset that had lasted the whole day slowly ebbed away like a river calming after heavy rainfalls. The maids picked up their brooms again, the servants cleaned the tables in the main hall, and Vlohiri washed the dishes in the kitchen.  
  
"Quite some folks," Narana said referring to the strange visitors they had had.  
  
"Beautiful horses," the groom said with his mouth full of stew. "The most beautiful beasts I've ever seen."  
  
"And you, lad, did you see the men, too?" the cook asked and put another staple of bowls into the water.  
  
"Yes, when they came through. Did they search the whole castle?"  
  
"Lanar said they just search for a friend of theirs," the groom said. "They could have stayed longer. Their horses... well, I would have liked to take care of them for a while."  
  
"Ah, you and your horses!" Narana laughed. "But the men were not bad, either. So strong and tall. And all of them fair-haired."  
  
"You are some woman!" the groom smiled and slapped her backside when he returned the empty bowl to Vlohiri. "Good meal." He bade them a good night and left.  
  
"Who were they?" the boy asked.  
  
"Some men from the east. I do not know." She shrugged. "The guards kept it quite to themselves." She looked at him. "And I did not ask. Lt. Medros did not look as if he would like questions."  
  
"Does he ever?"  
  
"His wife loves him – as far as I know. There must be a reason for it, I think ... Have you already eaten, Flea? There is some stew left."  
  
"I take it!" He finished his work and grabbed the almost empty cooking pot and a big spoon. He did not tell Narana that he had already eaten, and she looked like she knew and did not mind his appetite. After the more than satisfying supper he was about to leave the kitchen when the cook reminded him to take apples and bread. He stopped in mid- step.  
  
"Yes... right," he said slowly and took the food she handed him with a small smile. "Thank you."  
  
Narana locked eyes with him.  
  
"For whom are you taking it, lad? It is not for yourself, I know. Why don't you tell me?" Vlohiri hesitated. He remembered the empty cell in the dungeon – cleaned out as if the prisoner would not return – and his throat was suddenly too narrow to let words pass. He stared at the floor. "Flea, please, tell me. We are lucky to have enough to eat, but we cannot share it with anyone. It will be a long winter, and the food has to last until spring. Do you understand?"  
  
Vlohiri swallowed the sob, left the food in Narana's hands, and fled the kitchen.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 41, Gondor, southbound from Deremonor  
  
Éomer could not shake of the feeling that he had overseen something. It was like looking through a haze where the features are blurred and you do not know what exactly they look like. He knew that neither he nor his men left any room out. They had searched thoroughly even the pantries and stables, barns and fountain. There had not been the slightest sign that the King had been here or could still be in the castle or in the village.  
  
Still – his uneasiness remained. Lady Saborian had been friendly but reserved, and, truly, that was her right since he had – not openly – accused her of keeping the King of Gondor somewhere within the walls of Deromonor. She had allowed him and his men to stay in the castle, even invited them to sleep in the warmth and safety of her house. Éomer had thanked her and left to find a place to stay for the night outside the castle walls. He felt as if he could not breathe inside this huge building.  
  
Éomer remembered the people he had met. Some of them had evaded his stare, some had even fled as if he was a threat. Some had gaped at him, then their gaze had turned to Lt. Medros at his side, and they had quickly occupied themselves with sweeping or cleaning tables. Eomor first had thought it was because they had never seen a King in their home, but these people did not behave shyly – more like frightened. And he could not recall to have behaved in any way threatening.  
  
Then he had entered the dungeon with the Lieutenant. He had led him around with few words of explanation, had waited at every corner until the King had caught up with him. Medros had had that superior stare that made the prisoners shiver. None of the men sitting on benches in the small cells had answered to Éomer's questions. And because many of the cells had been empty Éomer had asked to visit the mine. At that moment Medros hesitated, explaining that by order of the Lady no one was allowed to see where the ore was mined. But Éomer had pushed his argument, and Medros finally had agreed to show him the mine.  
  
The King of Rohan was impressed by the riches the mine bore. The Lady and her kin would be wealthy for centuries to come. At Medros' side he had trodden the long tunnels, watched prisoners and workers alike, questioned some of them. But the answers were few. The men did not want to talk with him, some not even looked at him when directly addressed. It was strange. And Éomer's feeling of uneasiness, that had accompanied him since the Lieutenant had walked at his side, grew. He realized that the guard's presence made the men speechless. But he saw no way to make Medros leave. He only knew that all the answers he needed might lie within these tunnels. And that he could not grab them.  
  
He turned in his saddle. Deromonor stood silently like a watchtower of greater dimensions in the dusk of the day. Éomer could not help but ask himself again if he had made a mistake.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 41, the castle  
  
Medros was almost lighthearted, a feeling that had not taken hold of him since the day he captured the King of Gondor. He had been tense like a bowstring the whole day and was delighted when the King of Rohan and his Rohirrim decided to leave the castle before nightfall. He had even gone as far as nodding in appreciation to the other guards who had accompanied the Rohirrim.  
  
Nila expected him at the Lady's quarters, opened the door for him and left him alone with the Lady.  
  
"Now, Lieutenant, did everything go well?"  
  
"The King and his men left the castle an hour ago."  
  
"Éomer was satisfied?"  
  
"I showed him all the rooms he wanted to see, but he turned up only dust." The Lady nodded smiling. "Shall the captive be taken back to his cell?"  
  
"Where did you take him?"  
  
"The lowest level of the dungeon." She cocked an eyebrow. "I thought it to be the safest place since the King wanted to see the mine, too."  
  
Lady Saborian's smile faded.  
  
"There are other safe places in the castle, Medros. I do not agree with your decision. But as it happened – I do not wish to rush things. In the unlikely case the King of Rohan returns I do not want him to become suspicious. Take the captive back tomorrow morning. And," she added when Medros was already on his way out, "I want to be consulted the next time."  
  
"Very well, my Lady." At the door he bowed to her and left.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 42, the castle  
  
He had been on the run from the boys many times, but this evening they followed him with more determination than usual. The next turn brought him to the eastern tower. He slid around the corner, narrowly avoiding a servant with a plate in his hands, and headed for a room he could lock from inside. Two boys cut him off. They waited, smirking, laughing even. Vlohiri looked from left to right. He counted five, and no maid or servant was in sight now. Though Vlohiri would not have counted on their help. Sometimes he thought that all the children were invisible to the elders – except when there was work to be done.  
  
He stepped back, eyeing his opponents, knowing too well that he could do nothing against them. Hitting one meant be hit by four at the same time. It was not fair, but as long as no one seemed to be responsible for the children roaming the castle, they could do as they pleased – and it seemed that pushing Vlohiri around was the best way to spend their time.  
  
They closed in on him, the tallest first, the others following. Vlohiri had lived through it many times and was close to crying when the first punch hit his face. He sat on the floor, hardly hearing the laughs and invectives they used, when suddenly the punching stopped and the children fled. The boy looked up, heard the heavy steps on the stones and squatted in the next shadowy corner. A servant hurried by, not even glancing at him, and Vlohiri exhaled. Then, knowing the other children would return, he thought of the one place he knew where they would not follow.  
  
He was quick on his feet, ran the last corridor and made sure he was alone when he entered the dungeon. Though it would be completely empty by now it was a hideout as safe as it could be. He stopped when he saw the padlock at the first cell. Afraid and excited at the same time he looked over his shoulder. Frowning and with careful steps he went near the door, dared to peer through the bars and was rewarded with a well-known face. The prisoner sat on the bench, arms on his thighs, lost in thought.  
  
"Aragorn," he whispered, but in his excitement could hardly keep his voice low. "Where have you been? Where did they take you? I thought they would..." He could not say it.  
  
"Kill me?" The prisoner exhaled. "No, that is the last thing they will do."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"They could have killed me long ago."  
  
The boy grimaced. Another riddle he would not solve.  
  
"But... where did they take you? You were suddenly gone."  
  
"The darkest place." He shivered, and Vlohiri did the same just hearing Aragorn's low, depressed voice. "This had been the worst yet."  
  
Vlohiri did not understand what he meant, and he was too excited to ask for an explanation.  
  
"Soldiers came to the castle yesterday morning."  
  
"Soldiers?" Aragorn lifted his head. "Who were they? Where did they come from?"  
  
"I could not get so close. I'm just a boy, not a servant. They would not wish me to be near, but the whole castle was... confused and... the guards were upset. I better did not get in their way. One of them threw a bucket down the hallway!"  
  
The prisoner got up, put his hands on the bars and stared at Vlohiri, his grey eyes shining with urgency.  
  
"Tell me about the soldiers. Tell me what you saw."  
  
The sudden excitement made Vlohiri frown.  
  
"I did not see much. They had cuirasses on and dark cloaks. And helmets with horse's tail on them."  
  
"Which color? Did you see a banner?"  
  
"Green – I think it was a horse on them."  
  
Aragorn held to the bars so tight his knuckles were white, almost pressing his face through the iron.  
  
"A white horse on a green banner?" he asked with a desperate undertone, and stared at Vlohiri to make him answer faster.  
  
"Yes, I think it was a horse. As I said..."  
  
"The men. Who was their leader? Did you see him? The one perhaps that talked to Medros – or the Lady."  
  
"Yes, I saw him when they came. He carried a beautiful sword! So much gold about it! But it was rather short. And... I think he described something I had seen before... on your tunic, but I'm not sure."  
  
Aragorn's face was ashen now, his breath shallow.  
  
"A brooch? A green leaf embedded in silver?"  
  
"Yes, the one you had that when they brought you here the first morning. I saw it on your tunic. Then it was gone. I think he meant this."  
  
"The man, Vlohiri, remember the man who talked to the Lady. What did he look like?"  
  
"Tall...fair hair... big brown eyes... a beard, but not a long one. He had a deep voice as if he was a captain or something like that. But his name..." Vlohiri grimaced. "Something with a 'E'. I was not close enough to understand it. But the Lady greeted him very friendly. I'm sure he was a noble man."  
  
"Éomer of Rohan," Aragorn said with the look of sudden realization. "The King of Rohan ... Are they still here? Those men? Can you get to them?"  
  
Vlohiri almost stepped back due to the urgency of the prisoner. He now pressed all his weight against the door.  
  
"No, they left the same day," he answered puzzled. "They looked through the whole castle. The guards were very upset for this. Some said they only wanted to see how we live, but I don't believe this. Maybe they spied – one servant said that. But they had really beautiful horses, the groom said."  
  
"For how long have they been gone?"  
  
"The last night and the day. Why? Do you know them?"  
  
"Do you know someone you can trust to follow them?"  
  
Vlohiri was startled.  
  
"No, ... no, I don't."  
  
"Are you sure? No trader or soldier – a groom who could take a horse?"  
  
Vlohiri was desperate now.  
  
"No, I don't! Please, how could I...?" Aragorn let go his hold on the bars. Exhaling he sat on the bench. "Aragorn?" The boy peered into the cell. Aragorn hid his face behind his hands. His shoulders sagged, and Vlohiri could only hear him breathe.  
  
"Go... please, go," he whispered, and Vlohiri obeyed.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 43, from Minas Tirith northbound  
  
The clues were few, but Faramir found an old man in the City, who had known his father's family and could tell him that Denethor had one brother with a child of his own. A grown-up man by now he was the only one who could claim the throne of Gondor when Faramir and the King were gone. The Prince of Ithilien thanked the old man and returned to his horse. His men were waiting.  
  
"We got a visit to make," he told them and mounted. "And it might be that we will not be welcomed."  
  
The men nodded sternly and accompanied their Prince north to a family living in sight of Cair Andros. Overseeing the open landscape in the autumn's greyness the company was easily sighted and greeted at the gates by friendly men with spears and short swords at their sides. They recognized Faramir and asked for his wishes.  
  
"I wish to see the owner of the house and land – Nereghor."  
  
"Very well, my Lord," the man said with a short nod, but Faramir saw astonishment in his features. He walked cautiously behind him, his men following. He often turned, looked behind him, to the sides. His companions did the same, expecting an arrow from any side, but they reached the entrance without being harmed. Upon entering they were greeted by a man, bowed by age, who resembled Denethor, but with a softer expression in his old face.  
  
"Well, young Prince Faramir, what brings you to my house?" the old man greeted him and invited him to a table near the fireplace.  
  
Faramir felt uneasy. He had expected concealed surprise about his visit – presumably he was dead but Nereghor looked at him with watery blue eyes without fear or distrust.  
  
"I learned that you have a son, Nereghor."  
  
"Very well, indeed, I have a son – in your age I presume." He sighed. "Has this question to do with your visit?"  
  
"Is he here?"  
  
"Yes, my Lord, he is here. He is always here."  
  
Faramir frowned. He looked around. The dimly lit hall with its banners and carpets at its walls was empty but for a servant who brought a wooden tray with cups and a pitcher of wine. If any devilry had been planned he might have come earlier than expected. Still he could not shake the feeling that something would happen. His senses were telling him that he would get to know things he needed to know – if for good or bad.  
  
"Why do you say that?"  
  
Nereghor sighed again deeply and put his large hands on the old table before him. They were full of signs of his age, but once they must have been strong. He looked down upon them as if to wait for the question to come.  
  
"Do you come here, my Lord, to get to know my son? My brother never wanted to have me near him, so – well, I should be surprised, you might say, that you even know of my existence. But whoever told you about me and my kin, forgot that my son..." He folded his hands. "I would wish he could be like you, but..." He raised his head, and Faramir saw deep sorrow in his eyes. "He is still like a child, and I fear he will be like it for time to come."  
  
The Prince was about to ask the old man to explain himself when he just stood and walked over to a window. Faramir followed, keeping a short eye contact with his men at the entrance. Still he was not convinced he was safe here.  
  
"Now, Faramir of Ithilien, here is my son, Nereonod."  
  
Faramir saw a man in his thirties, sitting on the ashen grass of the yard, playing cheerfully with two children at the age of seven or eight. He needed a moment to understand that his assumption of growing doom from the family of his father had been nothing but a false lead.  
  
"I understand."  
  
"I wished he could had served the King in the war, but all he did was to hide when the fights drew nearer, afraid like a child in the cradle." He turned away from the window like he would shut away the memory of a son he would never be proud of. "Now, young Prince, are your questions now answered? Or is there anything else I can be a help with?"  
  
Faramir felt embarrassed in a way he could not explain. Truly, the old man did not know that there had been an attempt to kill the Prince, and he would never know that he had assumed Nereonod could be behind this evil act, but still Faramir thought about a way to apologize.  
  
"I did not mean to stir the peace of your house, Nereghor. I will bid you farewell now." He bowed and left quickly.  
  
* * * continued in 'Castle Part 2'... 


	6. Chapter 6

Castle Part 2  
  
Day 43, the castle  
  
During the day Vlohiri had not much time to think about the strange behavior of the prisoner. Narana needed him to prepare the meal, the maids ordered him to carry water from the fountain to the room of the Lady so she could bathe, and a servant took him almost by his ears when he returned with the empty buckets. Then he had to sweep the servants' quarters. He was glad when the sun set and the cook called him to the kitchen so he could eat. Many servants were present, hastily eating, drinking, and talking loudly about the visitors from the day before. Vlohiri took his bowl and, shyly, sat on the edge of a bench to eat and listen.  
  
"Such a pity they left so early," one small and stout maid said with her high voice. The others laughed heartily.  
  
"Thought one would take you?" a servant called over the table. "Make you a maid in Rohan?"  
  
"Rohan?" another echoed. "That's where they came from? That's far away. Must have taken them weeks to get here."  
  
"They were on a search," a boy stated with a weighty expression. "For a friend of theirs."  
  
"No, really! And... how many did they find?"  
  
"I would be a friend!" the stout maid said and another round of roaring laughter followed.  
  
"No, a friend of theirs – they asked the villagers, too."  
  
"Yeah? And who should he be?"  
  
"They said no name, just that he is tall, and lean, clad like a Ranger."  
  
"What would a Ranger look like?" Vlohiri asked shyly.  
  
"Don't know," the other shrugged. "But he should have a brown beard, brown hair – well, it was no one here who looked like him."  
  
"The Lady was pleased when they left," a young maid said. "To me it looked like she did not want to have them here in the castle."  
  
"Where did they go from hereon?"  
  
"Why do you ask? Want to run after them?" They laughed again, and Vlohiri shrunk. "What should we care? They are gone."  
  
"Could have stayed a little longer," the groom said thoughtfully. "They had beautiful horses..."  
  
Vlohiri washed the dishes and swept the kitchen when all others were gone. He was tired, and the broom seemed heavier than stones. He finished his work and sighed deeply, putting the broom away. Though he wanted to go to bed there was still one task left.  
  
"I want you to tell me whom you take that food to," Narana asked him again when he put the bread and a piece of cheese under his jacket.  
  
"It's for someone who really needs it," he replied hesitantly.  
  
Narana's face softened.  
  
"You got a friend here, Flea? That is good. But it would be easier if you could bring him here."  
  
"No." He shook his head and left the kitchen. 'I would like to,' he added for himself, 'but there is a heavy, locked door between us.' All the way he brooded over the word 'friend', unable to decide how a friend should be for him.  
  
The guard on duty was lazily playing cards with a comrade, and Vlohiri would not have to bother about noise – he was so absorbed in winning the game that he did not care. But the boy had learned to be cautious. He always asked himself why Aragorn could not only hear him, but knew exactly that it was he. When he spoke his name, the prisoner rose. The boy saw his pale face through the bars.  
  
"You should not risk this every night," he said when Vlohiri handed him bread and cheese.  
  
"It might not work every night." The boy lowered his gaze for a moment. "Narana was asking me to whom I take it."  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
Vlohiri hesitated, then asked:  
  
"Are you not hungry?"  
  
Aragorn breathed deeply, looked at the bread in his hand.  
  
"The hunger I have does not arise from my stomach." The boy questioned him with a look. Aragorn's mouth twitched. "I had hope – for this long time I had hope. But now... it is gone." He turned from the bars. "Thank you for the food, Vlohiri."  
  
"The riders came from Rohan," the boy said into his back. "The servants talked about it at supper. They were searching for you, right?" Aragorn nodded slightly. "They looked for a tall man with brown hair and beard." Vlohiri swallowed. "But they did not say it was the King they looked for. They said something about a Ranger."  
  
The prisoner looked back at Vlohiri, his eyes full of sorrow and despair.  
  
"I once was a Ranger. For years I trod the paths in the North. From Eriador to Ered Michrin." His voice trailed off. For a long moment the silence was undisturbed. "I have but one choice left. I have to attempt to escape again."  
  
"No!" Vlohiri exclaimed, and then gaped at the stairway, not daring to breathe. No footsteps. Only laughter from far away. He let go his breath and turned to the prisoner again. "If you try that again, they will truly kill you."  
  
"Then they kill me."  
  
"But..."  
  
"I have fought for too long, Vlohiri, ...too long and too hard to now suffer a life in a dungeon. I will not endure this for another week." He coughed severely, turned and drank water.  
  
"But how will you... I mean, the chains... you can't..." Vlohiri's head was swimming. He was tired, wanted to sleep, and now Aragorn announced he would prefer being killed than stay in the dungeon. Helplessly he raised his hands to the bars. "But... but the Lady would not sentence you to stay here forever."  
  
"I will not wait for my release."  
  
"But how will you do it? They do not even take the shackles off while you are here."  
  
"I do not know yet. But I have to find a way." The boy gaped at him. "Go to bed, Vlohiri."  
  
"No, please, you cannot do this," he urged. "Please, the Lieutenant... just don't." He leant his back against the door, stifled a sob and wiped his face the hem of his jacket. "Just don't." His voice was low, his chin dropped.  
  
"Go."  
  
Vlohiri could not move. Did not want to. Something held him back – as if Aragorn would be stopped from his foolish intention if he stayed at the door. He did not know what to say to change his mind. He tried to think, but was too tired to. Slowly his eyes closed.  
  
"Vlohiri!" Aragorn did not dare to shout at the boy, but quickly passed his right hand through the bars to grab his jacket before he could slide down. The handcuff cut in his wrist, his left hand was torn back, the chain clanked against the iron bars, a sound loud enough to wake the whole dungeon. Vlohiri woke with a startled cry, turned, pushed the hand away, and almost jumped back. "You fell asleep!" Aragorn hissed. Steps came from the guard's room. "Now – hide!"  
  
"But..." There was no time for arguments. Vlohiri made for the shadows at the end of the tunnel when Lanar ran down the stairway, a short sword drawn for attack.  
  
His gaze fell into the darkness of the tunnel after he was sure the padlock was in place. Aragon hit the door with his fist.  
  
"Set me free!" he shouted at the guard. "Right now! You've got no right to imprison me!"  
  
"Be quiet or I will teach you to be quiet!" Lanar bellowed and, again, squinted into the darkness. Aragorn hit the door with even more force, a dull sound echoing from the walls.  
  
"Tell the traitress to set me free – right now!" The following cough made him stop.  
  
"I will tell her tomorrow that I had to gag and chain you to the wall to teach you manners!" After a last look to the tunnel's ending he hurried up the stairs.  
  
The boy left his hideout, weak-kneed, trembling. His heartbeat seemed to make the sounds like Aragorn's fist hitting the door.  
  
"Hurry!" Aragorn urged him, but Vlohiri could only stumble. "Go!" he said, his voice raspy, unable to stifle the coughing. "He will be back soon."  
  
"But you..."  
  
"Do not worry about me!"  
  
"I do worry," the boy whispered, more to himself and carefully walked up the stairway.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 45, Gondor, southbound  
  
Two day-rides away from Minas Tirith Faramir searched for the advisor of his father. He knew from servants in the White City that the old man had left his home to live with his daughter and her husband south of the City to help them with the farm. They cultivated grape and corn. The wine from that vineyard was one of the best in Gondor. In these weeks after the war all people had started to restore their lands and needed every helping hand they could get. Faramir only had got a rough description of the farm, but peasants living nearby helped them to find it.  
  
Here his name was well known, and he was greeted with respect. When he and his men dismounted the horses were brought to the stables, and the groom whistled in excitement upon seeing them. Faramir found the man, Haridis, who had served his father for a long time, in one row of the vineyard, where he inspected the roots and branches of a vine. He looked up. His face was haggard, but friendly, wrinkled and sunburned, but healthy. He smiled broadly with few teeth left and seemed willing to embrace the young man.  
  
"Faramir, Prince of Ithilien!" he exclaimed laughing. "Well, it is a title that suits you well, my young Lord." He stood erect for a moment, pressing his right hand onto his hip. "What happened to your arm?"  
  
"I was stabbed," Faramir said flat-voiced, unwilling to reveal the details, and Haridis nodded slightly. He understood the tones and undertones far better than anyone else. It had been his task and pleasure to work for Denethor in his long years of service. And he had always known when to hold back questions and wait until a better time for an answer. "But the reason why I come to you – I need your help, your advice." He told the old man about his meeting with Nereghor and his son Nereonod.  
  
"Yes, I have known of them and the ill fate of Nereghor's son. Though your father would have wanted to forget about his brother's existence, but that shall not be mentioned here." Slowly they walked back through the vineyard. "But... as I see it, you are searching for members of your family you have not known before?" Faramir nodded slightly. "There are no more left from your mother's side, and no more than a brother of Denethor's, but..." He stopped and scratched his head. "If you really want to meet someone who is Denethor's offspring you should ask Lady Saborian."  
  
"Lady Saborian? Should I have heard of her?"  
  
"She lived in the White City with him. Or, to be correct, almost with him." Upon Faramir's questioning look Haridis explained, "Lady Saborian was married before, but her husband had been missing for long years. That is why she came to Minas Tirith. She wanted to be with other people, not alone in some castle far away. She and Denethor became friends. Ah, well, my Prince, you should have seen your father when she was close. He was another man. But... I will not linger on old memories. Forgive me. The Lady and your father lived near to each other, and when time allowed, they visited each other. A son was born to the Lady, and though I might be wrong I would assume that Denethor was his father. They were both very... reserved when it came to the subject. So, Faramir, I would advise you to find the Lady and talk to her. Maybe – even if her son has another father – she can tell you more about Denethor that any other man in the White City, including me."  
  
Faramir thanked Haridis and left the vineyard. He looked back from afar. It was so peaceful, inviting to sit down and enjoy the sunset in mid the autumn colored grass and the woods far away in the distance. His mouth twitched when he thought about the joy on the day of the coronation. All evil had been defeated. They had cheered and were overwhelmed by joy. A new life had begun for all of them, away from growing doom, away from sorrow and loss. Now it seemed that evil always found a way to survive and come back to torment those who had already suffered so much.  
  
He breathed deeply, spurred his horse and rode back to Minas Tirith to inform Lady Arwen of what he had learned.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 46, the castle  
  
The servants needed help so the boy did no longer work in the kitchen, but had to hasten all over the castle. Visitors were expected, and the rooms should be as proper as they could be. In the evening Vlohiri ate as heartily as all the days before. The work sucked all his strength, and when he reached the kitchen by nightfall he could hardly think further than the meal in front of him. He greedily ate what Narana put before him, and asked for more when he emptied the bowl. The cook watched his appetite with mixed feelings. She knew the boy was getting stronger by the day and he would endure the hard work, but still – he should not do it. He was only ten years old. But there was no one to contradict, and Narana knew that the servants would not listen to her pleading.  
  
The boy belched soundly and, leaning back, asked for bread and carrots. Some maids, eating their own meal, laughed at him, but Narana did not.  
  
"How can you eat so much?" she asked when she handed him bread, an apple and two carrots. "If you eat too much, you stomach will blow."  
  
"It won't," he said hastily, took the food and left the kitchen. He had seen something in Narana's face that he would prefer to forget. She knew now that he did not take the food for himself, but did she know more by now? He would not tell her for she would forbid him to go to the eastern tower (as she had done before). But Vlohiri knew that every time Medros was not in the castle he spent his time in the mine watching over the prisoners. So it was impossible for Vlohiri to go to bed satisfied when he knew Aragorn was starving.  
  
By now he knew the best time to reach the dungeon without meeting either guards nor gruesome boys willing to beat him up. Since the day he had started to work in the mine he had seldom seen them, and he was grateful. It would have been too much to be punished from two sides.  
  
He evaded a drunken servant and made it safely to the last stairway. The guard was talking with a maid, and by the tone Vlohiri judged that they were not speaking about the people in the dungeon. In front of the cell he stood on tiptoe to call out for the prisoner. He got no answer. With his hands full he waited a few seconds, then put down the food and pulled himself up the bars to peer into the cell. He squinted. It was almost too dark to see, but when his eyes had adjusted to it he saw a body lying on the floor.  
  
"Aragorn!" He let go for a moment, waited in silence if someone might come down the stairs. He would not know what he could do then. Grab the food and run? He would not make it far. Nobody came. Nothing moved. Vlohiri shivered in the cold. The first snow had fallen this morning, but due to his work he had not seen much of it. Again he grabbed the bars and pulled himself up to call the prisoner again. Aragorn stirred, moaned, then slowly turned his head, and Vlohiri could see hollow eyes in a waxen face, bathed in sweat. His hair and beard were filthy, full of straw, the clothes ragged, mere shreds. The prisoner was shivering convulsively. "Aragorn, get up," the boy pleaded under tears, but the man only coughed. He had to do something! He could not stand here and watch the man's misery. There must be something – anything – he could do to alarm the guards without giving himself away.  
  
Vlohiri gazed around. Truly he could throw a mug at the stairs and hide in one of the empty cells, but if the guards searched the dungeon thoroughly they would not miss him. 'Think!' he ordered himself while Aragorn coughed severely, trying to speak.  
  
"Go away," he murmured weakly, "go... away." But Vlohiri's eyes filled with tears of sorrow and helplessness. He had to do something. If he walked away now he would not know if the prisoner survived the night. It was a bitter thought, and more tears welled up. "Go!" Coughing and moaning followed. Vlohiri had heard those sounds before, and he shivered even more. One boy had nearly died a week ago. He had sounded the same way. He knew that the cold and dampness of this place made some prisoners sick. Narana had told him that in the winter most people died if they had no warm fire and enough to eat.  
  
The boy breathed deeply. A decision had to be made. One that no cook or maid would do for him. He would get help. But who? If he asked the guard he would truly be spanked for an hour for his disobedience. Or, worse, the man would call for Medros. Again Vlohiri would be punished – with the whip. He swallowed dryly. Peered into the cell again.  
  
"Please, Aragorn, get up! The floor is too cold." But the man did not stir anymore. Vlohiri grabbed the food and hid it in the next cell. Only then he took a closer look around. He had been here so many times. There must be a way... His glance fell upon the rear wall where the westwards tunnel ended. There was a slit. He had seen it before. It hit him like a hammer – he knew there was a door! He could just... His heart beat fast and even faster when he thought about the spiders, centipedes, and beetles by the thousands that lived in the darkness. He hesitated; let a few seconds pass. Another look at Aragorn made him swallow his fear. He was ten years old, after all. He should not be afraid to share the dark corridor with a legion of many- legged creatures. Again he looked around for a fitting object. An empty bucket lie toppled over near the last step. He nodded. 'I will get help,' he swore to himself and quickly searched for the mechanism to open the door in the wall. When he found it he slowly turned the door on its middle hinge trying to make as little noise as possible. At the same time he hurried, not knowing how long Aragorn would last. The thought made him double his efforts. He just needed a small slit, which he could close from the inside.  
  
When he looked into the impenetrable darkness his heart sank. Again he had to wait, encourage himself. A torch lay on the floor. He grabbed it; a spider, big as his palm, quickly crept away. Vlohiri let out his breath, lit the torch with the other in the corridor and took it to the entrance of the secret tunnel. Only then he glanced one last time at Aragorn, took the bucket and threw it up the stairs. It came down toppling and turning, making a noise as if someone was run down the steps with heavy shoes. 'This must be it,' he thought and ran to the entrance of the tunnel. Silently breathing he waited another moment to make sure the guard had noticed it. Then, when he heard the clanking of cuirass and sword, he pushed the door shut, took the torch in both hands and hoped that he had done enough.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 46, the castle, night.  
  
Medros was not easily woken, and when he sat up to listen to the guard's report his mood sank. "I have to inform the Lady about it." He knew that it was a bad time to pay a visit, but the decision was hers. He grabbed his trousers and tunic and headed for the west wing to wake up Nila.  
  
The Lady heard the news with lips so tight they were bloodless lines in a red-cheeked face.  
  
"Do you come to ask permission to let him stay in that cell until he does not breathe any longer?" she fumed when he had ended. "Is that what you want?" She did not let him answer. "Nila. Wake up Sadur! And send Lomac to the dungeon immediately!" The maid hastened out of the room. "Lt. Medros, did you not listen? I ordered you to take care of the captive. And I truly do not wish to see him dead during the first winter. Take Lomac with you. Make sure that he does what is necessary. And I will hold you responsible for the captive's well being. Did I make myself clear?"  
  
"Yes, my Lady," Medros answered submissively, but could hardly keep from clenching his teeth. "I will see it done."  
  
He left the private quarters and cursed viciously. The same moment Sadur met him. Judging by his angry look he had heard Medros. The Lieutenant cursed again to himself for his sloppiness and bowed to the son of the Lady.  
  
"My Lord, is it your wish to accompany me?"  
  
"It is obviously my mother's wish, and I will accompany you, yes." They walked through the corridors, and Medros repeated what he had told the Lady. Sadur frowned. "He is sick, he cannot get up? Did you not see any sign of a sickness before?"  
  
The inquisitive stare was too much for Medros.  
  
"I am no healer, my Lord. I put the prisoners to work or see them locked up in their cells. I..."  
  
"You know exactly what my mother wants, do you not?" Sadur cut him off. "How could you let it come to this?"  
  
Medros clenched his fists, hoping he could keep his mouth shut. They reached the empty and quiet tunnel. The guard, who found the King, stood erect when Sadur entered.  
  
"My Lord," he bowed and stepped aside.  
  
Sadur grimaced with disgust upon looking into the cell.  
  
"He did not move?" he asked the guard, and the man shook his head. "Open up!"  
  
"This might be a trick," Medros warned him urgently. "He has attacked us before. Ask Bayonor – he was stabbed by him."  
  
"Look at this man, Medros," Sadur replied mockingly. "Do you think he will jump up and attack the three of us? You cannot be serious. Again: open up." Medros had a list of curses in mind and used them all – silently – while opening the squealing door. The prisoner did not move. Sadur entered the cell, took a look around. "Is that all the prisoners get?" He stood beside the King and saw his back slowly rise and fall. "Is that how you take care of the prisoners, Lt. Medros?" He shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the man on the ground. "He looks like he won't last the night. I hope for you, Lieutenant, that I am mistaken."  
  
"Yes, my Lord."  
  
Medros made way for Lomac. The healer, a small, stout man, older than any of them knew, murmured like sleeping into his grey beard. Fittingly he had not changed his clothing, and his nightgown swung around his bare ankles. Sighing about the odour, the hour, and the slimy hole in which he was sent, he greeted Sadur with a nod and knelt beside the prisoner. With his left hand he carefully touched the man's forehead, held a finger under his nose and, with effort, turned him half on his side. With the cracking of his knees he rose.  
  
"He is still alive. He has got high fever and, now, I cannot tell precisely, but... I would say that he will not last very long." He turned to Sadur, let his chin drop, raised his eyebrows, and asked, "Are you sure you want to try and save him? I would say..."  
  
"Can he be saved?" Sadur cut him off.  
  
"Well, ..." Lomac took his time, grimacing, looking around with open disgust. "Truly not here – not among this... dirt. It is cold in here, damp and... now, dirty. He is a prisoner, so why..."  
  
"Tell me what is needed." Sadur shot a glance at Medros, who seemed to dwindle.  
  
Lomac sneezed and used part of his gown to wipe his hands.  
  
"Take him out of this... place. He needs warmth, a bath and fresh clothes. Put him in a bed if available. Though I do not think he will make it through the night it is the only thing I can recommend. I will see to some herbs for a tea. But are you sure..." Sadur pierced him with his look. "I see what I can do for him. The fever is the first thing," he mumbled with a look at the unconscious person on the ground. "If we can lower the fever he might have a chance." He looked up to Sadur. "All right, then, take him to a place fitting and tell me. I will be in my study." He passed Medros without a word and slowly climbed up the stairs, murmuring to himself the list of ingredients he would need.  
  
Medros thought his lungs would burst if he did not utter his anger about what he just heard.  
  
"My Lord, you do not truly wish to..."  
  
"If you do not run to do what is demanded I will see you in the next cell tonight!" Sadur cut him off so viciously Medros' mouth dropped. "There is a room upstairs with a fireplace. If we use it you do not have to carry the captive through the whole castle. Take two guards to carry a bed in this room." "But... my Lord..." Medros swallowed his obstinate reply and made an effort to sound submissive. He failed. "The room has a window with no bars, and the door.."  
  
Again Sadur, now fuming with anger, cut him off.  
  
"He will not go anywhere for the next days! He might not even live to see the next morning! And that is your fault! The way I see it you objected the Lady's direct order! Now... if you could obey right now and do as ordered the captive might breathe a little longer!"  
  
Medros did not dare to open his mouth again. He hastened up the stairway, woke up Lanar and Bayonor and together they prepared the room, using every curse they knew, combined in their wish to disobey, but unable to contradict the Lady's order. They had found a bed with a wound iron head, a fresh sack of straw and a blanket. Lanar, carrying wood for the fireplace, spat on the ground.  
  
"Now, this has gotten too far! If she wants him taken care of, why does she not take him to her quarters?" He cleared the fireplace and stapled from twigs to branches and got the fire going within minutes.  
  
"Do as ordered," Medros replied, but Lanar could see that his superior was all smoke and flames about the decision. He went to fetch chains and handcuffs to fasten to the head of the bed with padlocks. Bayonor closed the thick curtains to keep the howling winds outside. Turning he thought that the room where he lived with his wife and children did not bear the comfort the captive was now given. He could not dwell on his thoughts. The Lieutenant called them downstairs with a stretcher to carry the prisoner up. The guard at the cell said he had not moved, and when they lifted him, Lanar felt how light the King had become. Lanar and Bayonor carried the stretcher while Medros warned the guard at the door not to mention a word to anyone in the castle.  
  
"Any disobedience will be punished," he snarled, and the man turned pale, almost fleeing the now empty tunnel.  
  
Lomac and Sadur entered the room a short while later.  
  
"I told you he needs to be washed and clothed," the healer said. Medros preferred to keep his mouth shut. Sadur had threatened him enough to make him worry about his position, but Lanar swung around.  
  
"Do not try to tell me that we shall..."  
  
"I want to see it done," Sadur simply said and stared at Lanar and Bayonor. They both looked as if sentenced to ten weeks in the dungeon. "Go and fetch hot water, tunic and trousers – and make haste! He will be thoroughly washed before dawn or you clean the pigs' barn for a month." Bayonor swallowed down an obstinate reply and glimpsed at the King lying on a piece of curtain beside the bed near the fire. "And when you have done that give him a trim." Now the young guard had to leave the room to not object. He almost choked.  
  
Medros followed him, grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, away from other listeners.  
  
"Now you do exactly what you are told," he hissed, looked back over his shoulder and turned to Bayonor again. "The Lady made me responsible for his well-being. So, if anything goes wrong, or the healer is dissatisfied with our work, I am quite sure the Lady will find a punishment for us."  
  
"You mean, if he dies..."  
  
"You name it. Now go."  
  
Bayonor ran to the fountain and returned with two buckets of water, which were heated over the fire. The healer had put his sober hand on the dirty breast of the prisoner and turned to Sadur, who was waiting silently, but as a menacing figure, at the foot of the bed.  
  
"He is still breathing, and his heart beats steadily. If it stays like this..." He shrugged and glanced at Sadur, waiting for a harsh reply, but it did not come. Sadur but stared at the haggard face of the King and kept his thoughts to himself.  
  
He had watched the King of Gondor on the field, fighting against the Army of Mordor, which was driven by Sauron's evil will. He had seen what one man could give to his own army – strength, courage, stamina. Thought it was true that the King was in his way to become ruler of Gondor, Sadur would have preferred to fight this man openly, draw swords and cross them. But history would be changed in another way. His mother had made the decision without his agreement. Now he just had to wait until the next summer to claim the throne.  
  
Sadur did not feel pity, but as a soldier he would always have preferred a quick death to a long decay. As his mother wished, he would take care that everything was done to save the King's life. And he could not object that she was right: With the King's return he had almost lost everything. Sadur had always done what his mother ordered him to do. He had been eager enough to be the strongest and most educated boy in Minas Tirith, and when he had returned with his mother to Deremonor he had again been eager to learn. This time the best sword fighters had trained him, and he knew a lot about warfare, armoury and leadership. He was intelligent enough to see the threat a captured King brought with him. Even if the King of Rohan had left without finding a trace of his friend, there might be others to come. But there were places in this castle only the builders knew of – and he because he had learnt all about this castle while he had been a young man. His mother, too, had been a very good teacher.  
  
Sadur stood and watched silently, but challenging the guards with his stare to see that they worked properly. He could read their faces. He himself would never have done such low work. The women were responsible for washing and dressing. But it seemed just that those men, who were responsible for the condition of the captive, now had to clean him. Sadur decided that he would take a walk through the rest of the dungeon and the mine to find out if other workers and prisoners were treated as badly as the King. When Bayonor and Medros turned the King to his right side to take off of the rest of the clothing, Sadur made a step to get a closer look.  
  
"What was the reason for using a whip on this prisoner?" he asked in a low, threatening tone. "Explain yourself, Lt. Medros."  
  
Medros clenched his teeth so hard it hurt.  
  
"He was disobedient," he then grumbled, but he knew he would not be allowed to leave it like that.  
  
"You might explain that further, Lieutenant, for I do not see how a shackled and handcuffed prisoner can show any kind of disobedience."  
  
"He can."  
  
"Lomac, you will see after these wounds, too. I want them treated in the best possible way."  
  
"As you wish," the healer said with a frown.  
  
"And you have to keep quiet about this."  
  
"I already know," Lomac replied, and they both silently watched the guards do their work.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 47, the castle  
  
Vlohiri still shivered by the mere thought of the hidden tunnel from the dungeon's empty corridor. He had come out near a mountain slope and had had the evil choice between a night in the tunnel or in the cold wilderness. He chose to stay where it was a little warmer, but the memory of the beetles and spiders, worms and other creatures creeping over his shaking body made him sick. He had no recollection how long he had waited, but when he returned to the dungeon Aragorn's cell had been empty, and since that discovery he was worried.  
  
He worked at the fountain during the day, almost too tired to pull up the buckets with water every time a worker came to fetch them, and when the shift was over, hurried to the kitchen to eat. Done, he realised that this time he would not need more food to take to the prisoner, but he went to the cell. It was still empty, the door ajar, and the foot chains lay on the floor. For the first time Vlohiri realized what the prisoners suffered. He himself did not live in a palace with feathered cushions and thick blankets, but he had it warm and cozy in the maids' bedroom. Aragorn had nothing more than a load of straw and a blanket, which did not look as if it could keep a dog warm.  
  
And now he was gone.  
  
The boy stood in the corridor, listening to the burning of the torch behind him, and felt miserable. The tears streaming over his cheeks were more than just out of loneliness. He had failed Aragorn. He had not been fast enough to fetch help, and now the strong man with the green eyes and the soft voice was dead, and he was more than alone. He felt guilty. He was ten years old, and the simple task of calling a grown-up to help had been too complicated for him. He had hesitated too long.  
  
Vlohiri sobbed all the way back to the northern wing.  
  
"Uh, now, look at him! In what kind of slimy mud hole have you been?" The boy was taller than Vlohiri and built like a rock from the mine – square, rough, sharp at its edges. He flexed his fists and sneered at the smaller boy with gleaming eyes. "Now, look here, answer me! Did you bath in the pigs' stable?"  
  
"Get out of my way," Vlohiri said flat-voiced and blotted his face with his dirty jacket. He could still feel all the spiders crawling over him and shivered involuntarily.  
  
"Get out of my way," the other boy echoed mockingly. "Why should I, scarecrow? You want to go to bed? Not this way!"  
  
"I'm tired, so leave me alone." Vlohiri stared back, and a voice in his head asked why he was not afraid. The opponent was taller, older, muscled and too stupid to think that stepping aside would make both of their lives easier.  
  
"You will be a heap on the floor in a moment." He stepped forward to punch Vlohiri, but the boy blocked it with his left arm and returned the blow with his right. His fist connected heavily with the boy's chin, and the taller boy sat on the floor with a loud thud. Vlohiri kept his surprise in check and ran through the corridor to the maids' bedroom. Slamming the door shut he exhaled.  
  
Then a small smile slowly found a way on his face.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 47, Minas Tirith  
  
In the cold night the Prince could not find rest in his sleep.  
  
He could hardly see where the dream had taken him, but it was dark there, cold, damp, full of strange voices filling him out. He was shivering for the mere presence of distress. He looked around in the gloomy darkness. There was a man sitting on a bench, hands and feet in chains. His chin had dropped on his breast, his brown hair was long and dirty, his breathing labored. Faramir wanted to step closer, see the man's face, talk to him, but he could neither form words nor get any closer. It was like he stood on one spot that only allowed him to watch a single piece of a whole picture. The man on the bench stirred, moved his hands, and tried to steady himself when he slowly slid to his left side. The bench was too small; he could not hold on, but fell on his knees, then, with a pitiable moan, he lay outstretched on the cold stones. Faramir could not help but only watch the unconscious person on the floor. He turned slightly, and within his glance there was a movement. Two slender hands clutched the bars at the door. He could not hear what was said, but he saw the terrified eyes of a boy when he pulled himself up. For a moment the face could clearly be seen – a lot of unkempt hair, sticking out ears, a small but long nose and small lips, slightly parted in shock and sorrow.  
  
The man on the floor moved, but still Faramir could not see his face. Then the boy was gone, the man on the floor was quiet again. The cold and dampness, the feeling of dread remained.  
  
Faramir woke breathing shallowly. The room he laid in could not have borne a greater contrast to the place of his dream. It had been an awful place, and he still shivered when he got up. His heart was beating fast. He went over to the window. The City lay in peaceful quietness, unaware of troubles. For a moment he watched the roofs in the clear white shine of the moon, trying to calm himself. Assuming the prisoner had been Aragorn and what he had seen lay in his future, he had to leave Minas Tirith, taking up the search in his own hands.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 48, the castle  
  
As ordered Medros and Bayonor had washed the captive and dressed him in trousers while Sadur stood at the door, watching, growling. Medros knew he would report any occurrence to his dislike to the Lady. There was no use in arguing. Sadur had never contradicted his mother, and it was not to expect that he would do it now, even if he shared their opinion.  
  
When the still unconscious King was put into the bed, Medros restrained him instantly with the handcuffs at the head. Sadur did not forbid it, but left the room. Only the healer remained, silently working at a small table. Bayonor was left to do the trimming while Medros was about to leave the room when Lomac stopped him.  
  
"Tell the cook to do some broth – with meat, I would prefer. The prisoner needs something to strengthen him." They locked eyes. Medros fighting to change the demand, Lomac to stress his pleading. The healer added flatly, "Please, see it done immediately," and shook his head when the Lieutenant was gone.  
  
Vlohiri was working in the pantry when Medros entered with Narana. He quickly evaded them as if he would be flattened by the Lieutenant any second, and stood, with a sack of flour, nearby to wait until the unhappy looking cook and the guard would be gone.  
  
"A broth, yes," Medros stressed, "and make it a good one. By order of Sadur." His voice was strained, his face contorted with anger which seemed to break out of him a little with every word. "And see it done quickly, understood? He does not want to wait until tomorrow."  
  
"Yes, of course," Narana answered submissively and put some vegetables into her apron. "I will (added) send Flea for the chicken."  
  
"Right now." Medros turned on his heal.  
  
"Where shall I bring it?"  
  
"I will get it myself," the Lieutenant replied and left.  
  
The boy gazed after him with wide-open eyes. He put the flour on the shelf.  
  
"He brings a meal to Sadur?" He could not conceal his astonishment. "Why that? Is his servant sick?"  
  
Narana shook her head.  
  
"Don't ask, Flea! Run to Dirina and get a chicken." She turned. "I never had to do that," she murmured stepping up the steep stairs. "Making a broth in a rush! Where have I come to?"  
  
Vlohiri closed the pantry door and passed her with his young and agile legs. He heard her complaining about her age and the lots of work she still had to do without cooking a broth, and then he was outdoors, breathing the clear and cold air. He almost smiled. It felt good to be outside the castle's permanent dim light. He always enjoyed the ways to the village, and even today when he had to hurry the walk made his heart light. He remembered the summer when he had helped the saddler sewing new snaffles for the horses. It had been so satisfying to sit in the sun, the needle and the leather in his hands, and he always thanked Narana that she allowed him to work outdoors. True, she would not have done it without the little lace of love binding her to the saddler, who needed a helping hand. But to Vlohiri it had been like a gift.  
  
At noon the broth was ready, and Narana sent the reluctant boy to tell Medros. With his heart almost in his throat he left the kitchen, turned to the main hall, but could not find him. A guard sent him to the eastern tower. His heart raced now. Every encounter with the Lieutenant had ended as a disaster for him, and this would be the next to come. He halted when he heard voices.  
  
"A broth for the captive!" It seemed to be Bayonor, and he did not sound sober. "Is that ever heard of!" Slowly Vlohiri crept nearer. "If it goes like that I want to be the next to be sentenced!"  
  
"Why are you here?" a voice from behind hissed, and Vlohiri spun around, startled, and too afraid to find words. Lanar looked at him sternly. "Is there a reason, or did you steal yourself away from work?"  
  
"No... no," Vlohiri stuttered and shrank back from the guard until the wall was in his back. "I have to... I wanted to tell Lt. Medros that... the broth is ready."  
  
"Oh, right, yes." Lanar still held him fast in his stare. "Go back to the kitchen. I will tell the Lieutenant."  
  
"Yes, ... yes, of course." Vlohiri jumped out of reach and did not stop running until he entered the kitchen again, breathless. Narana only looked at him and continued her work. Vlohiri found his mind racing like his feet had before. 'A broth for the captive.' He heard this sentence over and over again, and when Lt. Medros came to fetch the pot he decided to follow him. The voice of reason tried to make him stop. 'It is madness – like to visit the wolf's den', but still he found his feet carrying him out of the kitchen.  
  
"Go back to the pantry," the cook called after him, but he did not bother to react. He pretended to have the same way as the Lieutenant. He even took a bucket and a broom and carried it down the corridor hoping that the maid, who put it there, would not miss it. Medros did not look back. He cursed in a low voice all the time and brought the pot to the eastern tower.  
  
The boy fell behind, put down bucket and groom. From behind he heard a female voice, but could not understand the words. He did not want to be caught and hesitated to climb the stairs. He had been there before and knew the rooms, but most of the time they had been deserted. He strained his ears, tried to imagine which room the Lieutenant entered. Hidden in the shadows under the stairway he held his breath. The steps of heavy boots echoed away. He dared not to wait any longer and ran back the corridor to continue working in the pantry.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 48, the castle, dusk  
  
Naturally he would be missed at supper – his stomach told him that he would miss some broth, too – but Vlohiri could not wait any longer. Already the sun had set, and it was dangerous enough to climb the outer walls of the castle at daylight. Without seeing where he set his foot or found a hole in the stone for his fingers it would be deadly. He climbed out of the window of the last room in the eastern wing, made it to the roof within five minutes and stood for a moment in the cold, gusty wind. The snow had been blown away, but still the shingles were slippery, and he carefully trod along the rooftop. Reaching the tower's soft curving he paused for a moment, regained his breath, and slowly, deliberately set his right foot on a projecting stone, searched for a gap for his fingers and left the roof. The last sunrays cast their light on the tower, and the boy, shivering with cold, dared one step after the other until he reached the first window. He could not see inside for the thick curtains were drawn shut, but he could kneel on the windowsill and eavesdrop. Almost without breathing he waited. His hands and feet were numb within minutes. From the inside he heard a fire crackle, but no voices. Coughing and soft clanging, but no footsteps. It was risky, but he had not come this far to return to the roof without a look.  
  
Slowly he pushed aside the curtain only a slit to peer inside the room. On the right side a fire was burning, and the warmth instantly lured him in. Nearby stood a bed a with a wound iron head. Chains were fastened with padlocks to the outer rods; he could see hands in cuffs, and brown hair on a flat pillow. On the far left side of the room a torch lit the space beside the door, which was firmly shut. Beyond in the darkness he could not see. But it was quiet in the room, so Vlohiri drew his legs over the rim and let himself down on the floor.  
  
With two steps he bridged the distance to the bed and knelt beside it, the fire hot in his back, enjoyable, but nothing compared to the sight of the captive he had thought to be dead. A smile tugged at his lips, broadened, and tears of relief fell on the linen, with which the man was covered up to his chin. Aragorn's face was pale and glistened with sweat. His lips were bloodless, hard to distinguish from the waxen skin. Vlohiri did not trust his eyes. For the time of their encounters Aragorn had been dirty, his beard and hair long and filthy. Now someone had washed him, trimmed the beard and changed his clothing. He looked like a different man. But at the moment it was of no importance. He felt great thankfulness to whoever brought this man up here. Aragorn's breathing was labored and sounded as if stones rolled up and down his throat. But the boy only thought that Aragorn was still alive! He had been found and taken care of. He had not been too late. The night in the dark tunnel had been worth enduring. But he had not been released. The handcuffs would make it impossible for him to turn or get up. Gently Vlohiri touched the man's clean forearm and wondered what had made Medros change his mind. Vlohiri thought this as possible as ore to turn into wine.  
  
Aragorn stirred, moaned, and slowly opened his eyes. They lay deep in their sockets, and the fever got a strong hold of him, but when he looked at the boy he tried to smile.  
  
"How did I..." He coughed severely, and without thinking the boy put his hand in Aragorn's. The man held it fast, squeezing his fingers until the coughing subsided. He let it go and closed his eyes, too weak to keep them open any longer. Vlohiri shook out his hand, and sighed deeply. He knew that the change of rooms did not mean the prisoner would heal in a few days.  
  
"I must go," the boy whispered. Daylight had almost left, and he feared the way back alongside the wall in the darkness. "But I come back." He climbed up the windowsill. He felt lighter than before, and the cold and the wind did not touch him anymore. He had not seen the shadow in the darkness.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 49, the castle  
  
Tebenor had always loved horseback riding, but since the war was over it had not been necessary to stay in the saddle fifteen hours a day, and he felt sore all over his body when he reached the walls of Deromonor. He knew his greeting would not be warm the moment he revealed the truth, but the message was too urgent to leave it to one of his men.  
  
The groom took the rein, and Tenebor limped up the stairs, groaning and cursing about the bad weather, his age, and the distance he had to cross. The guard on duty escorted him to Nila, who led him into the Lady's private quarters.  
  
"Greetings to you, my Lady," he bowed and took off the cloak.  
  
"What takes you here, Lord Tebenor? Alone? It might be dangerous to travel these days."  
  
Tebenor ignored the mocking undertone.  
  
"My Lady, Beregor did not succeed in killing Prince Faramir." The Lady's face went pale. "I saw him in the White City. He carried his right arm in a sling, but he obviously is well enough to travel."  
  
"What news did he bring?"  
  
"He met with Lady Arwen..."  
  
"Is she still thinking her husband is alive?"  
  
"The people mourn the King already, but as for her – no, my Lady, I do not think that she accepts him to be dead. Faramir got five riders with him. He will probably start his own search for the King." "Éomer has been here a week ago. There is no need for the Prince to turn into the same direction. He might ride north."  
  
"He might. But I allowed myself to set watchmen on the route to the west. They will keep you informed."  
  
"You mean, if Noratis fails me?" she sneered.  
  
"Yes, my Lady, I do not think that Noratis can be trusted. To avoid punishment he might give us all away."  
  
"I can see in you eyes, Tebenor, that you would prefer action to waiting."  
  
"As long as Noratis remains on his lands he will be no harm to anyone."  
  
"We will see to that. We meet tomorrow morning to talk about Faramir's unexpected turn up."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 50, the castle  
  
Vlohiri wished he was the 'flea' as they called him when he, again at dusk, for he could not spare time during the day, climbed the icy cold stones of the tower. He was glad they had chosen the room next to the stairs. In any other case he would have to climb half around the tower. He shivered at the mere thought to only see the barren lands somewhere under him.  
  
With cold hands and feet, shivering and weary from his daily work, he sat again on the windowsill, ears open, hardly breathing, before he was sure that he could safely enter.  
  
For the curtains were shut, the only light extended from the lively fire and the torch. Vlohiri hesitated on the ground, still able to climb back and disappear if necessary. But the shadows did not move and no voice spoke outside in the corridor. He had seen the smith in this area of the castle. He had carried a big eye and a lock, and since Vlohiri knew the room had had none before it was clear that Medros wanted to make sure the captive did not break his chains and run.  
  
He knelt beside the bed, and this time he was rewarded with a feeble smile from Aragorn.  
  
"Did you...?" He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, shivering severely. "Did you tell the guard...?" he rasped.  
  
"No," Vlohiri whispered, "I threw a bucket up the stairs and hid."  
  
"That was a brave thing you did." Aragorn coughed, his face contorted with pain. He pulled at the chains, raised his head from the pillow, until the urge subsided. Panting, he wetted his chapped lips. "Water... can you give me...?"  
  
"Yes." Vlohiri rose, searched for a small bowl to fill from the pot near the fireplace and gently lifted Aragorn's head so he could drink. Putting down the bowl he could not wait to ask, "Why did they take you here? Was it Medros?" Aragorn shook his head slightly, almost closed his eyes. He was worn out by pain and the simple fact of being awake. Sweat poured down his temples. "Who else? It did not..." He stopped. Footsteps were drawing near. Without hesitation Vlohiri slipped under the bed.  
  
The door opened swiftly, and Lomac entered, closed it behind him with a thud. He was whistling to himself when he got near the bed. Putting down the little pot he brought he smiled at the prisoner.  
  
"Ah, you are awake. That is good. Now you drink and return to sleep. That is always the best." More whistling followed. "The little bowl... oh, there it is. How did you get there, my bowl?" He filled it and helped the prisoner drink.  
  
He spat it out immediately.  
  
"It tastes awful," the prisoner complained and coughed again. Vlohiri might have laughed if he had not been so tense.  
  
"Yes, yes, that it might. But even if it tasted like horse piss you will drink it, and you shall not spit it out! No good behavior! Well, we can try it again." The boy shivered. He knew it was getting dark quickly, and he had but no choice to return to his room in complete darkness – if he could make it that far. He was afraid of falling into the depth. He would be dead, he knew it, but the other option was to lie under the bed the whole night. The healer was slow, but persistent. Again he held the bowl to the prisoner's lips and waited patiently until he had drunk. "Now, do I have to hold your mouth shut, or will you swallow it this time? Much better. Thank you. I do not like to have patients who resist getting healed." He filled the bowl with some water. "Here, I know the taste is not the best." The boy waited as if he was lying on smoldering stones, until the healer was satisfied. He returned to the little bowl – "How could you get on the bed, my little thing?" – and put a hand on the prisoner's forehead. "Well, this will take time. Now, it might get a little better tonight." He nodded to himself. "It is good that you rest."  
  
"Does not look..." He suppressed the coughing. "... does not look like I have a choice."  
  
Lomac giggled softly.  
  
"Ah, yes, right. They are short, are they not? He will always do his work in the best possible way. I will see to that.... But first..." He exhaled and squatted beside the bed, "...you may come out now, lad." Vlohiri froze in shock when he saw the grey-bearded face beside him, his long grey hair touching the dusty floor. "Do not look at me like this. The rumbling of your stomach is so loud I would have found you in the dark. Now, come, it cannot be comfortable down there."  
  
Vlohiri did as ordered. Slowly he got up, one moment facing the healer, who slowly rose, the next Aragorn, who frowned worriedly. He did not know what to say. He knew he would be punished and would not be able to come and see Aragorn again. He did not know what was worse.  
  
"Do not... give him to Medros," the prisoner pleaded quietly, his eyes almost closed.  
  
Lomac stroked his beard with his right hand and cocked his head.  
  
"Why should I not do this?" he said slowly, eyeing them both.  
  
"He did nothing... wrong."  
  
"Now, now... he should not be here, right, lad?" Vlohiri was not even able to nod. His mind was racing if it was better to flee right now, but his feet did not move. "What is your name?"  
  
"Flea... Vlohiri," the boy whispered.  
  
"Ah, you are Flea, yes, I should have thought so."  
  
"Why?" Vlohiri asked faster than he could stop himself.  
  
"I saw you on the tower – some time ago. You are a good climber, Flea. Well, that goes by the name, I think." He giggled.  
  
"Please, do not give me away to the guards."  
  
"No,... I do not think that I will do that." Lomac stopped the stroking. They both looked at the man on the bed. He had closed his eyes, and the regular though still raspy breath showed he had fallen asleep. "You might be of some help." Vlohiri's eyes widened with surprise. "Do not try to thank me now. It was wrong and it was dangerous what you did. There might have been someone else in this room when you climbed in."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Not today, lad. Two days ago you had already paid him a visit, have you not?" Vlohiri's face went pale. "Yes, I know. I sat there in the darkness. It is a quiet place to think, you know?" He took his little pot in the right hand. "Now I will go out. You wait."  
  
The boy's gaze fell on the closed curtains.  
  
"I will get out there."  
  
"No, you will not." Again Vlohiri felt panic arise. Lomac exhaled loudly. "I let you help me with that patient, but there is one condition. You must enter the room through the door. I do not want to tell your mother that you fell off the tower."  
  
"All right. But my mother would not..."  
  
"I know her," he cut him off, and the boy was silent. "Now I will go out and see if the stairway is safe." He pointed to the wall to tell the boy to wait there, while he opened the door, and peered into the corridor. Then he waved Vlohiri to come. The boy ran downstairs and was gone in seconds.  
  
* * * 


	7. Chapter 7

Still Day 50, the castle  
  
The Lady entered the room shortly greeting Tebenor, who had risen from his chair. Sadur followed her and closed the door.  
  
"Lord Tebenor, the situation has to be cleared out before next spring."  
  
"What do you expect me to do?"  
  
"Gather your men, prepare them to meet the Prince as soon as he sets out westwards."  
  
"This will take more men than I have under arms. Considered those I can trust."  
  
"Very well then, contact Beregor. It is on your way. It is his fault that we are standing here empty handed. He will ride with you."  
  
"Mother, let me ride with them."  
  
The Lady gazed at her son, proud but unwilling to give in.  
  
"My son, your task lies ahead of you. We will not risk your life in a fight that should already be over."  
  
Sadur exchanged glances with Tebenor, but the noble man kept his face blank.  
  
"I will see what I can do," he stated. "There might be more gained with an assault than with an open fight."  
  
"Very well. I expect you to keep me informed about your progress. And this time make sure the Prince finds no river to hide."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 51, the castle  
  
Vlohiri had not slept – or barely slept for he was wide awake at sunrise, the first boy up to run to the kitchen and have breakfast. Narana, who slept in the kitchen, looked at him puzzled, but due to the amounts of work she had to do she did not bother him with questions. As long as he worked as ordered she would be glad. There were times when Flea had been more absent than not, and she had wondered if he might end up like his mother.  
  
When Lomac came to ask for Vlohiri she was surprised at first, but let him go. The boy almost jumped to the door, and when she frowned, Lomac only smiled.  
  
"He is a young boy," he giggled, "with a lot of energy." Then he was gone, and, shaking her head, Narana returned to her own work.  
  
Vlohiri had to suppress a smile when Lomac ordered him to carry a bucket of water to the room in the eastern tower. He had had harder work to do, and serving the old healer seemed more a reward than a punishment. But it felt strange to march up the stairs to the chamber of the prisoner at daylight. He had expected a guard to stand in front of the door, but the only measure was the heavy padlock. Lomac searched the depth of his sac to find the key, murmuring to himself that he had had it this morning. He found it, opened up and let Vlohiri enter first. The boy put the bucket near the fireplace and eagerly stacked it up with fresh wood. When the fire was livelier he heated the water. Turning, he saw that Aragorn watched him.  
  
"Good morning." Unconsciously Vlohiri had lowered his voice.  
  
"Same to you."  
  
Lomac had put his little pots and bowls on the small table in the rear part of the room. Whistling and softly singing he used a small spoon – a kind of spoon Vlohiri had never seen before – to fill a crumbly substance into a cup.  
  
"Bring some hot water, lad," he said, and Vlohiri rose, smiling about Aragorn's astonishment.  
  
Lomac added water to the substance and stirred it, before he knelt beside the prisoner's bed.  
  
"What did I miss?" Aragorn's asked and coughed again badly.  
  
"Let me put it like this: We made an agreement," Lomac replied, and Vlohiri added a broad smile. "He will work here, but he does not climb around the tower."  
  
"Climb?"  
  
"Now, young man, how do you think he got here the first time?" The healer cocked his head. "He took quite a risk to get to you."  
  
"Yeah..." Aragorn locked eyes with Vlohiri. "I know."  
  
"Now, that this is settled, drink this." Aragorn grimaced. "Do not argue with me, prisoner, I might be old, but there is some strength left." He slightly lifted his head and made him drink the tea. Vlohiri hurried to hand a bowl of water. "Thank you, lad, you are indeed a help."  
  
Aragorn coughed no sooner than he had swallowed a sip of water.  
  
"What was in that tea?" he asked when his voice worked again.  
  
Lomac rose slowly, his face a mixture of surprise and complacency.  
  
"Some herbs... some magic maybe and..."  
  
"Magic?" the boy interrupted.  
  
The healer smiled at him.  
  
"We always say that. It is like... well, you have to believe it works or it will not."  
  
"You could work on the taste to make me believe," Aragorn said hoarsely.  
  
Lomac burst into laughter, shook his head, and laughed again when he returned to the table.  
  
"You have got some humor left – that is good. Well, now, where have I..." He scratched his head. "Sometimes I need more than... Ah, well, now." He faced Vlohiri. "Now, I forgot something in my study. I have to fetch it. You could wash your friend in the meantime – or do I have to fear that you will break his chains, shoulder him and help him to escape?"  
  
Vlohiri did not know how to take it – or react properly. Was it a joke? Was he testing him? Would it mean he gave him away to the guards if he made a wrong move? He looked at the healer with his face and mind completely blank.  
  
"I won't go anywhere," Aragon said into the silence and moved his shackled hands.  
  
"Well, good enough for me. Lad, do not look at me as if you would not know how to spend your time! Do not forget, wash him, and use cold water for his face." He left the room and closed it, but no padlock was set in the eye.  
  
Vlohiri could not recall if he had ever felt more awkward – light-hearted on one hand, and intimidated by the sudden responsibility on the other hand. He had never taken care of somebody who was sick, and the mere thought that Aragorn could need the help of the healer while he was alone with him, raised his uneasiness. His hands trembled when he poured cold water into a bowl and used a piece of cloth to wipe Aragorn's face. He was glad that the prisoner closed his eyes and relaxed for he did not know what he should say. It was not the first time that he was alone with the prisoner – but on all preceding occasions there had been a thick door between them, and he had risked punishment by the guards. Now he had a higher permission and felt uncomfortable with it.  
  
"Why do you tremble?" the prisoner asked with still closed eyes. Vlohiri felt the same way as in that moment when Aragorn had spoken to him the first time in the dungeon. He felt drawn towards him and repelled by his ability to read his mind. He did not answer, but continued washing. The man's body still showed the signs of punishment – scratches, bruises, and the healing wounds where the hounds had bitten him. Vlohiri did not want to imagine how much pain the prisoner had endured since the day of his capture. He shoved the thought aside, rinsed the cloth and continued his work. Done he covered the shivering prisoner again only to find him asleep. Grateful that he had escaped an answer he used the rest of the water to wash himself.  
  
Lomac returned with a basketful of leaves, put it on the table and only glimpsed at the sleeping prisoner.  
  
"Now, lad, done your work?" The boy nodded. "Good! Don't be shy. I like company that talks." His mouth twitched, and Vlohiri replied a small smile. "You talked to him, did you not?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, you found your voice. Thank you." He started grinding the leaves with a pestle, and Vlohiri stepped closer, curious as always. "The tea is good for him, but add this..." He nodded to the bowl on the table, "... to a broth, and he will get strong in no time."  
  
"And then they put him to work again," the boy whispered, not at all meaning to let Lomac hear.  
  
"You knew of him before." Vlohiri swallowed, avoided Lomac's inquisitive stare. True, it was more a statement than a question. He could not deny that his relief the first day he had found Aragorn had been honest. Why should he have wept? "But I thought no one but the guards go to the dungeon." Now the boy looked like he would want to disappear through a hole in the ground. He could neither answer nor lift his head. "Well, I see, climbing the eastern tower is only one way of spending time for you." The boy obstinately kept his mouth shut. Lomac smiled. "Flea, I will not tell the guards. If I would have wanted to I could have done so yesterday. Your behavior that night was quite... telling. You wept as if you almost had lost a friend. Is it not so?"  
  
"They would have let him die in his cell," he whispered with a shudder. The memory felt thick and dark. His helplessness, the minutes of hesitation. He could recall it all too vividly.  
  
"Yes, Medros might have done that." Lomac grinded the leaves with even more force. "But the prisoner shall live – as it seems to me. Lord Sadur even found his way to the dungeon to take care of it."  
  
"The Lord himself?" Vlohiri asked lifting his head.  
  
"Well, yes, as I said. He was there that night when the prisoner was found." He stopped in mid his movement. "Did you raise the alarm?" Again Vlohiri felt as if he could not breathe, but he nodded slowly. "Good, lad, you are more courageous than you look like. Now..." He handed him the pestle. "...my old hands do not want do this any more. Will you finish it for me? The leaves shall all be crumbly." He left the table to kneel beside the bed. Vlohiri twisted his head to follow Lomac, who gently touched Aragorn's forehead. "Though he is unusually strong he can be glad you were near. But he will be sick for some time. You know that, do you not?" The boy nodded. "Well..." Lomac rose and breathed deeply. "... if nothing bad happens to him he will survive." Vlohiri did not know what that meant. Lomac stepped closer and continued with his deep voice, "The guards want to see him dead. Only under the pressure of Sadur's presence they took care of him at all. Someone should stay with him."  
  
"But if the Lieutenant..."  
  
"Yes, Medros is a pain in the neck." There was a smile on his face that confused Vlohiri more than anything else. "But even though not all pains can be cured some can." He whistled softly when he looked at the bowl. "Now, that is enough. You made almost powder out of it! Go and get some broth from Narana." Vlohiri was at the door when he still heard Lomac."Where have you got this strength from? This is unbelievable!"  
  
Vlohiri grinned and ran to the kitchen.  
  
The day might have been pleasant. Vlohiri had never worked less in his life and found it strangely satisfying to give a hand to the healer's work and listen to his stories. Lomac had travelled far and long during his lifetime and knew many things the boy had never heard of before. And while the prisoner slept most of the time Vlohiri learned in three hours more about Middle Earth than in ten years before. Lomac told him about Elves and Men, about Dwarves and wizards, battles and alliances. Noon came and passed by and the healer was still occupied with teaching the ignorant little servant.  
  
"Do you not know anything at all?" he exclaimed from time to time when Vlohiri was unable to tell him the most simple connections in the lives of the people. But then he would sigh and would begin his explanation again. When the prisoner stirred, he stopped. Vlohiri turned from the table. Aragorn was panting as if he had run. He moved his head from one side to the other, murmuring words the boy did not understand. "He has a bad dream," Lomac said quietly. The prisoner's arm muscles tensed, followed by low moans. Then he relaxed. "It is over. Now, where was I?"  
  
"What did he say?" Vlohiri whispered, unable to turn away from Aragorn.  
  
"Do not worry about his dreams," the healer replied in a tone that made Vlohiri look at him immediately.  
  
He frowned and added, disapprovingly:  
  
"Why do you say that? He always talks in riddles, too."  
  
"Does he?" Lomac smiled. "Then this poacher is quite educated, I would guess... Now, let me tell you something more about Dwarves." He continued his speech, and the boy listened, until the hacking cough of the prisoner made the healer stop. "Well, I think... yes, it is time! Flea, see if the broth is warm – not too hot! Make sure of that." He rose with a gesture that made Vlohiri run to the big pot. He was hungry himself, but did not dare to say a word. He brought the pot to the table. Lomac added the almost powdry crumbles of leaves and stirred with a big spoon. "See, now it is ready. Give me a bowl, please. Thank you. If you walk any faster, Flea, you might fly." The puzzled look of the boy made him laugh. "You are quite some boy! Here, now, take that to your friend."  
  
Vlohiri took the bowl and a spoon, frowning, not sure if he should contradict. A friend? Was the prisoner – Aragorn – a friend of him? What would it be like to have a friend? He knelt beside the bed, the pleasant warmth of the fire in his back. Aragorn's look was knowing, and he felt as if he could stare right into his heart. The boy evaded it by putting down the bowl to rearrange the pillow. Still uneasy he began feeding the prisoner. He could not think of anything else than Lomac's assumption he would be Aragorn's friend. But was that possible? How could he be the friend of a man accused of poaching? There had been no contradiction by that fair-haired man from Rohan – the King of Rohan, as Aragorn had told him. He could be a Ranger – a King – or a poacher – he could be anyone.  
  
If he allowed himself to think that Aragorn was innocent, he had to assume in the same moment that the Lady had done something terrible wrong.  
  
How could he do that? She was known as just!  
  
The door flew open, and Medros entered with a fierce look on his face, ready to accuse Lomac.  
  
Vlohiri looked up, shocked, and dropped the bowl.  
  
The Lieutenant kept his surprise in check and bellowed:  
  
"What do you do here, you little bastard? How did you get in here? How can you dare..." He stamped through the room, fuming with anger. "This time no cook will stop me, understood?" He grabbed Vlohiri by his jacket, pulling the screaming boy away from the fire.  
  
"Leave him, Medros!" Aragorn shouted and regretted it instantly. The coughing left no breath for words.  
  
"He works for me," Lomac said quietly and appeared from the rear side of the room, smoking a pipe and looking at ease.  
  
Medros spun around, still holding fast to the boy's jacket.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
Lomac sighed as if he supposed the Lieutenant to be more stupid than the boy at his side.  
  
"I said he works for me. Let him go."  
  
"You will explain that, old man!"  
  
"As soon as Vlohiri stands on his feet again."  
  
Medros shoved the boy aside. He fled into the shadows.  
  
"Now, Lomac, tell me!"  
  
"Narana was so friendly as to allow Vlohiri to work for me. He will take care of the prisoner – or would you want to sit at the bedside and feed him, since the shackles are so short he cannot even move?" Medros stared down on the prisoner.  
  
"It stays like it is. He has proven times too many that he will use every freedom of movement to escape."  
  
"I did not say you should set him free – just leave the chains a little longer. He should not lie on his back all the time. He will get sore. I have seen it before. Now, loosen the chains, Lt. Medros. He is still far too weak to even get up, let alone attempt to escape."  
  
"There is no way you can make me do it. I have to see to the safety of all of us. I cannot let him get a chance to attack one of my men."  
  
"Lieutenant..." Lomac's voice suddenly became firm and demanding. "You will either do as I ask you, or I will take my pleading to Lord Sadur. We can let him decide."  
  
"Then we let him decide," Medros growled and waited outside. He called for Bayonor, who had waited at the stairs. He halted at the door when the Lieutenant ordered him to watch while Lomac accompanied him to Lord Sadur. "Hurry. I have not all day to spend!"  
  
Lomac helped Vlohiri to stand.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked friendly. Vlohiri was still shaking badly, but he nodded. "Now, good – it will not take long. You stay here, do you understand? Do not leave the room." Then he headed for the stairs.  
  
Bayonor slammed the door shut from the outside, and the boy stood at the same spot for a moment, regaining his breath, thanking whatever goddess watched over him that he had not been whipped or even worse punished. With a shudder he turned. He felt like he had been pulled away from Medros' whip in the very last moment. As if he could hear the slashing sound before the hit...  
  
He wiped his face with both hands. They were damp and cold, and he blotted them on his trousers.  
  
"The healer will watch over you," Aragorn said wearily.  
  
"He cannot be everywhere." He shivered again. "Only Medros can."  
  
Again the coughing made it impossible for Aragorn to answer. Still deep in thoughts Vlohiri went to the pot with warm water and filled a cup. He held it for the prisoner to drink and put it back again.  
  
"Even he cannot," Aragorn whispered, and, finally, Vlohiri looked up. Fear still lay in his features. "He is just an angry man." It was obvious the boy did not believe him. "Where did you hide – the night you found me?"  
  
Vlohiri swallowed. The memory of the creatures in the tunnel was only slightly better than the thought of Medros' venom.  
  
"A tunnel," he said reluctantly. "There is a tunnel from the dungeon."  
  
Aragorn made an effort to lift his head.  
  
"Where does it lead to?"  
  
Vlohiri frowned. Suddenly it came to his mind that the prisoner had talked about a new attempt to escape. And what he saw in his stare let the boy hesitate to reveal the truth.  
  
"It's... it's just a tunnel," he lied, "to another tunnel in the dungeon."  
  
Moaning Aragorn lowered his head on the pillow.  
  
"You do not believe me at all, do you?" he stated flat-voiced.  
  
There was a long silence, but in Vlohiri's head thoughts were running like a flock of deer. 'You cannot trust him!' one voice said. 'He is a prisoner!' The other said, 'Did not the visit of the King of Rohan show you that everything was true that Aragorn said?' He recalled the incidents with the prisoner, and that never before any other prisoner had been treated like him. The Lady had ordered her guards to bring him to her! Did that not show he truly was what he claimed to be?  
  
"The tunnel leads to the lands beyond the castle, near the mountain," he whispered, not sure if he wanted Aragorn to hear it. "I could not see much – it was dark, but the ground was flat. There might be a path." He did not look at Aragorn. He had lied before, and he felt guilty – somehow. "But..." He chewed on the words. His vision of the world was changing due to Lomac's stories about Middle Earth. Now he had told a convicted poacher about an escape route. This was foolish! "Don't try to escape, Aragorn," he begged and looked up, pleadingly. "Don't try it. When they catch you the next time the Lieutenant will kill you."  
  
Aragorn's labored breathing was the only sound in the room, and Vlohiri thought that the man had fallen asleep again when he said strenuously:  
  
"What else could I do, Vlohiri?" He turned his head to face him. "Look at me. They want me to live, but only to let me suffer."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"And you will not... even if I tried to explain it." He shivered, and Vlohiri drew the blanket higher and turned to stack up the fire. When he was finished Aragorn was sleeping.  
  
* * *  
  
Still Day 51, the castle  
  
Medros could hardly wait to give words to his anger upon entering Sadur's quarters. He inhaled, but Sadur, obviously troubled, did not let him speak. He stopped him with a look.  
  
"Do not turn to me with any argument, Lt. Medros. I had a close inspection of the dungeon and gave order to change quite a few things. Maybe you were half blind the last years, but it seems to me that the treatment of the prisoners is not at all appropriate."  
  
Medros swallowed. He had not expected that.  
  
"My Lord, it was always done what was necessary. The prisoners should not be welcomed here. They are no guests."  
  
"They are no animals, either. Now tell me what takes you here. Quickly. I have work to do."  
  
But Medros looked like a ship with no sails.  
  
"My Lord, the healer has taken up a boy in his service." Sadur's eyebrows lifted. "He has taken him into the room with the captive."  
  
"Did you?" Sadur snapped.  
  
"Yes, my Lord." Lomac did not raise his voice. "In my humble opinion it is better to instruct a boy with the task than the guards. They have other work to do."  
  
"But the captive will truly try to talk the boy into helping him to escape."  
  
"At the moment, Lord Sadur, the captive is hardly able to do more than sleep. And the point is..."  
  
Medros cut him off.  
  
"The first thing this healer wants is to loosen the chains of the captive! I have seen before what that man is capable of! It is far too risky to let him move!"  
  
"Lomac?"  
  
"The man will be sore in less than a week. I know that. He should be able to turn to his side. And if you still want me to treat the injuries the whip has caused I need to turn him. I cannot change the bandages right now."  
  
Sadur fell silent for a moment. He walked to the window, stared into the darkness.  
  
"Loosen them, Lieutenant. Make sure the captive is locked up in the room when no one else is around. And you, Lomac..." He slowly turned. "... you will be held responsible if any kind of escape is attempted. You can go now. Lieutenant, wait." When Lomac had left Sadur breathed deeply. "It looks like a decision taken on the base of common sense. But it might be that the King tries to convince the boy of who he is. The boy will not be believed, but I want you to have an eye on him. Just in case..." Medros nodded. "But there is no need to act right now. It would cause too much suspicion if anything happened to that boy. Just... watch him. Make sure he cannot take anything to the captive that would help him escape."  
  
Medros was not satisfied, but, after all, he was not punished for neglecting the other prisoners. Only the presence of the healer had left a dull pain in Medros' head. He did not hurry to reach the chamber in the eastern tower again.  
  
Lomac returned to Vlohiri with a basket of herbs and put it on the table.  
  
"Eat something, lad, take the broth-"  
  
"With this... stuff in there?"  
  
"It will be good for you!" Lomac's face softened. "You might get strong, too." He pointed with his bearded chin to the man on the bed. "Did he sleep the whole time? Now, he should take my tea more frequently." He shook his head. "Well, now... eat, my little friend. I have to take care of other patients. It looks like half of the castle is sick!"  
  
"You leave?"  
  
"Yes. A guard is on watch in front of the door now. Eat and then..." He turned and opened the door. "Guard?" Bayonor's tall figure appeared at the threshold. "You will have to enter this room every hour to give the prisoner my tea."  
  
"This is not my task, and I won't do it. You have to." The firm voice made Vlohiri shiver, and he stood at the table with the still empty bowl in his hands.  
  
"Then... well, I have but the choice to leave the boy behind." It sounded almost amused.  
  
"The boy?"  
  
"I have to visit other patients. Or would you not want that I look after you daughter?"  
  
Bayonor clenched his teeth.  
  
"Then be it. The boy stays, but the door will be locked."  
  
"As you see it." The healer turned, sighing, and closed the door. "Well, now, Flea, you will have to stay here." He smiled a little, complacent smile and rubbed his hands.  
  
"What about... the Lieutenant?"  
  
"Ah, now, it might be easier to argue with a goat! Sadur did not look very happy, either." He met him at the table.  
  
"You talked with Lord Sadur?" Vlohiri asked big-eyed.  
  
"Yes – he is just a man, you know? But, all you need to know is that Medros will be here in a few moments and do as I pleaded. Sadur agreed."  
  
"That is good, isn't it?" The boy took a bowl full of broth and grimaced at the little pieces of leaves swimming in it.  
  
"As good as this broth. That reminds me – it would be good for the prisoner to get my tea every time he wakes up. If you can do it. He might try to resist. Now, eat up! I have to go."  
  
"Please, no," Vlohiri asked with his mouth full. "Wait until the Lieutenant was here. I'm afraid."  
  
The healer sighed again.  
  
"And that Lieutenant, too, is only one man."  
  
"That's what ... the prisoner said, too."  
  
"And he is right, is he not? There is no witchcraft behind his doing. He does what he thinks is right to do. Alas, my arguments and his are completely different."  
  
Footsteps were drawing near, and Medros entered, fuming as he went, pulling the key from the chain under his cuirass. He did not look at Lomac or Vlohiri, but bellowed for Bayonor to help him. With unnecessary caution Medros opened the padlocks and lengthened the chains, fastened them again, obviously dissatisfied and ready to jump and yell at everything that was a target. Aragorn stirred and woke up. To Vlohiri it was unclear if Aragorn willingly kept his face blank of any expression. It was his luck. Medros would have taken up gladly any provocation. So he rose, stuffed the key under his cuirass and left, Bayonor on his heels.  
  
Vlohiri let out the breath he had held the whole time.  
  
"I must go now," Lomac said. "Take care and sleep well. I will come back in the morning." He left and pulled the door shut. The padlock was set in the eye, and the boy stared at the door, then ate and put back the pot when he was satisfied. To be rid of the Lieutenant, knowing that he would not return for the night, made him feel light-hearted.  
  
"Lomac left some tea," he said to Aragorn, walking to the table. He belched soundly. "Do you want some?" Again Vlohiri could not help smiling when the prisoner's lips twitched with disgust.  
  
"No, I don't." He coughed and leant back, relieved when it was over. "But he told you that I have to take it, right?" When they locked eyes Vlohiri felt strange – almost like laughing. Comfortable. At ease. He could not describe it. He had never felt like this before. So he nodded solemnly, trying to convince Aragorn that what he assumed was true. After some moments hesitation he made up his mind. "All right, then – get it over with." The chains were lengthened, but still too short to allow Aragorn to hold the cup alone. Medros had not been generous, only given in to the higher order. At least the prisoner's arms were no longer extended to the bedposts. Vlohiri carried the cup carefully not to spill a drop, knelt and lifted the prisoner's head to help him drink. He made it halfway through, grimacing with disgust. Vlohiri bit his lower lip, but when he took back the cup he laughed. Aragorn could not have looked more surprised if Medros had personally set him free.  
  
"I get you some water." The boy fled the bedside and could not regain control of his self. He bit his lips to no avail.  
  
"You are making fun of me."  
  
Vlohiri returned with water and knelt again.  
  
"The healer said you should drink his tea. It is good against the cough. Despite the taste." But he could not remain earnest. "It really is."  
  
"Try it yourself," Aragorn replied hoarsely.  
  
"I would not want to. I'm not sick."  
  
His way of speaking made the prisoner smile.  
  
"Did I..." He had to pause, and his voice was even raspier when he continued, "Did I thank you for saving me?"  
  
"It was not me. The healer said that Lord Sadur came down to the dungeon himself. He told the guards to bring you up here."  
  
"Lord Sadur? He is the Lady's husband?"  
  
"No, her son," the boy said in a high-pitched voice. "Don't you know that? Her husband is gone for... well, I do not know for how long, but not even Narana knows him."  
  
Aragorn closed his eyes.  
  
"How old is her son?"  
  
"Well... he is a man, grown-up. Perhaps younger than you."  
  
"So it is true then."  
  
"What is true?" Vlohiri frowned and waited for an answer, but he got none. Sighing he got to his feet. He rinsed a cloth in a bowl with cold water, wrung it out and wiped Aragorn's face. Lomac had told him to give the prisoner ease, and Vlohiri was willing to fulfill his task. Only then he made himself comfortable on the floor near the fireplace.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 52, southern Gondor  
  
The King of Rohan wiped his weary eyes. He had taken off the helmet and gratefully accepted a cup of water. His gaze wandered over the landscape. In summer this would be a plain with grass and flowers, bushes and few trees, soothing the onlooker's eyes. Right now it was nothing more than a barren field with spots of snow, as dreadful as his thoughts. The trees carried no leaves, stood like soldiers erect but without a task, waiting the spring to begin a new circle of life. Éomer sighed and put down the empty cup. The fire they had started on that windy evening did not warm him. The thought of returning to Minas Tirith empty-handed sucked all warmth he had left. His hope had been that somewhere in the wilderness or in any of the villages and farms they had visited, he would find at least a trace of Aragorn, something to lift his spirits and keep him going with renewed hope. Now this hope was fading, and he could see in the eyes of his men that they were thinking about giving up. He sighed deeply. Wind bit in his face like needles, and he squinted.  
  
Only once there had been a hint to a man living in the woods, and they had eagerly taken up the trace. In vain. The man they found had been tall and lean, even had brown hair, but he was a woodcutter who had lived in the emptiness of the forest for years. Éomer had told himself that the captors could have hidden everywhere. In the woods, in a house or in some place too remote to ever be visited by villagers. Whoever had captured the King might by now have killed him, knowing the pursuers were drawing nearer and the treason would be revealed.  
  
So he had to ask himself if there was any hope left. Could the capturer have taken him further south to Anfalas' long coast? Or would he lie buried in a grave with no name and no search, however thorough, would find it? Éomer wiped his face. He was sure he had not overseen anything. He could ride further south, but for how long? Was it even possible that they would turn up more than snow and dust?  
  
He pulled his cloak tight around his broad shoulders. When one of his riders came asking he told them they would ride south, and then, when they reached the shores, turn east. He could easily recognize that his companion despised the idea of riding more weeks in vain, but Éomer would hold his promise.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 52, the castle  
  
Vlohiri had followed Lomac's orders and given Aragorn the tea as often as he was awake. Every time he rose he had found the prisoner in more distress than before, panting, sweating and unwilling to talk. The boy put himself to his self-made bed again, not thinking further than another hour of sleep. The next time he woke because he heard his name. Sleepily he wiped his eyes and sat up.  
  
"What...?"  
  
"Is Lomac back?" Aragorn asked breathlessly. Vlohiri squinted, shook his head. "Then you have to help me turn."  
  
"Me? But... I can... I will get the healer." He was up on his feet and ran to the door, slammed his fist against it, shouting for the guard, trying to open the door. It was locked and he got no answer. Insecure he turned, unable to look at Aragorn.  
  
"It is getting worse... You have to help me."  
  
Slowly Vlohiri returned, his fingers playing with each other like they had a life of their own.  
  
"I cannot help. I..."  
  
"You can." He watched as the boy stepped to the other side of the bed. "Push me at the shoulder, but..." He tried to stifle the coughing. "Do not touch... my back."  
  
"Your back," he boy repeated and, hesitatingly, took away the blanket. He dared not to breathe. His hands were cold and clammy, and he wished for nothing more than the appearance of the healer. "Aragorn, I..."  
  
"Get it over with. Now."  
  
Vlohiri evaded his stare. His mouth twitched; he wanted to say something, but would find no words to lift the task from him. This seemed too much for him to handle. He could give the prisoner tea, and he could wash him – after all tasks that were easy enough for a boy of ten years. But this... He gently put one hand under Aragorn's shoulder, the other under his thigh. He did not even know if he could do it, but the weeks in the mine had strengthened him more than he had realised. It was a fluent motion with much more force than necessary. The chains clanged against the rods, stopping his right arm over his head. Aragorn clenched his teeth not to scream.  
  
"It's all soaked!" the boy exclaimed. "The whole sheet!" He took his hands away, unable to decide what to do next. He but stared at the reddish and brown bandages covering the lower half of the prisoner's back. Only then he realised that the prisoner was panting. He hastened around the bed. "Are you all right?"  
  
Aragorn had closed his eyes.  
  
"Take the bandages... away," he rasped between shallow breaths.  
  
"No... no! Lomac will do this! He will truly come soon!"  
  
"Wash your hands and do it!"  
  
Vlohiri was repelled by the commanding tone and the task ahead. Once more he felt like protesting, but turned and filled water in a bowl to rinse his hands, wiped them on the hem of his jacket, fighting the sobs and the bad feeling that he could do something wrong. He shivered kneeling beside the bed again.  
  
"But why..." He stopped himself, and Aragorn was in too much pain to answer. As carefully as he could he lifted the first part of the bandage, swallowing hard. He had never been confronted with a wound like that before. The bandage was wet with blood and pus, and more was to be seen beneath. The chains clanged again, and Vlohiri saw that Aragorn had stretched them to their limits, his hands clenched into fists. He did not know if to hasten or work slower. But with the care needed he took away the other parts of the cloth, revealing the long gashes the whip had cut into his flesh. Shivering he dropped the bandages, and all too vivid images of himself whipped by Medros' cruel anger made him cry. Slowly he rose, pulling the cover as far as Aragorn's hips, then rounded the bed again. The prisoner was shaking badly, and again Vlohiri felt his helplessness as a weight too hard to carry. He touched the man's shoulder. "Aragorn, please, ...", but he got no answer.  
  
Then there were voices near the door, one belonging to a guard – harsh and demanding – the other soft and friendly. The padlock was opened, and Vlohiri stumbled to the door to almost embrace Lomac as he entered.  
  
"Hold it, my little friend! I carry things that should not fall."  
  
"Aragorn... he is... he wanted me to..."  
  
"Wait, now, slow and precise, if I may please." Lomac put down the basket and a pot he had carried on the table, then quickly, frowning, he looked at Aragorn. "He told me to..."  
  
"I see it." He rounded the bed and knelt. "Ah, now, as much as I feared." He shook his head slightly. "Go, and fetch fresh water to heat! Do it quick!" Vlohiri took the empty bucket and ran into the guard, standing on the threshold. He apologised hastily and fled the stairs.  
  
When he returned he filled water into a big pot to heat it over the fire. The healer stood at the table, murmuring into his beard.  
  
"Can you help him?" Vlohiri asked when the healer did not give any sign of activity but counted the silvery-green small leaves in his hand. It looked like a weed. "Lomac, can you do anything for him?" He glanced at the man on the bed. He was still panting, his eyes were closed, but his hands had relaxed.  
  
The healer looked up.  
  
"He is in great pain, lad. And will be for some time. Do you remember when he was whipped?" He stared at the boy. "Now, as precisely as you can."  
  
"No, I can't tell. Some days ago... perhaps longer. I did not see it."  
  
"Now, surely, Medros would not let anyone see it," Lomac growled, and suddenly his expression became fierce. "And now that it is done they call for the healer to make it undone." He said some sentences Vlohiri did not understand, but it sounded like curses. He stacked up the fire, then watched as Lomac filled the hot water into a bowl with the leaves. "This little plant here has travelled far," he sighed with a little smile that quickly faded. "I got it from a friend in Ithilien. Come and enjoy the smell."  
  
Vlohiri found it awkward to bend his nose over the steam, but the healer was right. The smell was indeed enjoyable and lifted his heart. He still felt the sorrow for he could not help Aragorn, but it seemed less dreadful than before.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Kingsfoil." He filled some water with the leaves into a small bowl, handed it to Vlohiri. "Here, hold it to his face. It cannot do much, but might give him ease." Lomac took some pieces of cloth out of his sac and slowly put it in the water while Vlohiri squatted in front of the bed and held the bowl under Aragorn's nose. "And this," he heard the healer in his back, "will help against the inflammation." He knelt on the other side of the bed, wrung the cloth and spread it out over the wounds. Aragorn suddenly inhaled, tore at the chains and let out a cry that made Vlohiri stumble back. The hot water spilled over his trousers, and he yelped.  
  
"I did nothing!"  
  
"It is true, my friend, you have done nothing," the healer said in a stern voice. "I should have done that much earlier. Where did I put my head?" Again words followed Vlohiri could not understand. He came to his feet again and saved the rest of the hot water. He held it to Aragorn's face again while Lomac wrung a second piece of cloth. "It is not the weed that hurts him, my friend, it is only the contact of the cloth with the wounds." Vlohiri was aware of it now and drew away in time. But Aragorn's reaction got weaker. He gave in to the pain, got carried away by it. "You can take it away now," the healer said rising. His knees cracked, and it took him some time to stand upright again. "Ah, now, I'm getting old! To all that comes." For a moment he paused, his right hand's thumb and forefinger rested on the bridge of his nose. "Stack up the fire, lad. Ah, there is not much left... Go, and fetch some wood. We have to keep him warm."  
  
Vlohiri ran to the door.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 53, Gondor, westbound  
  
For six days Faramir had ridden south with his men. To their right they had passed Lossarnan, to their left Emyn Arne. They had crossed the River Erui three days ago and turned westward, into the icy winds and gusty weather of the southern part of the White Mountains. They rode slowly, not willing to force the beasts to run faster on the hard and partly slippery soil.  
  
Still Faramir thought about the strange meetings he had had with Nereghor and Haridis. If it was true that Lady Saborian had had a son with his father he would come to meet his half brother. And he would get a chance to talk to a woman who had shared hours with his father different from those he himself had lived through. It was impossible for Faramir to think of his father as a giving, and loving man, as someone who would share his thoughts with someone else. Denethor had always been a very reserved person, and though it seemed that he had lived another life with the Lady, Faramir would have had no doubt that his father had never married that woman.  
  
But this meeting was at least ten days away. If the weather did not improve he would have to wait in the next village along the old path to the west. A cart with a horse approached, and he called to the coachman to halt. When they had reached each other Faramir asked the man for Aragorn, without naming him. The elderly man, lean and small enough to appear like a juvenile, cocked his head and looked at them suspiciously. He smoked a pipe and did not take it out when he spoke.  
  
"I was asked that before. Who are you, lad? You look strangely familiar. Have you been here before?"  
  
"My name is Faramir. Now, my friend, did you see someone fitting to the description?" he replied politely.  
  
"Now, yes, Faramir. You are the Prince of Ithilien, right? Ah, well, I knew I had seen you before. But... no, as to your friend... well, I said to those riders from... ah, Rohan, yes, they came from quite far away!" He nodded to himself and looked at his almost empty pipe. "No, I have not seen your friend. Or whoever he might be. That man from Rohan called him his friend, too."  
  
"Where do you come from?"  
  
"West of Morthond." He pointed in the western direction with a short finger. "I bought ore, you see?" With his chin he nodded to the freight in his cart. "Bring it to Osgiliath."  
  
"You drive frequently on this route?"  
  
"Well, as frequent as I get paid, my young Lord. But right now – yes, well, if the weather would no be so bad I could go faster."  
  
Faramir thanked they man and spurred his horse. If the riders had taken the King of Gondor on this path they would have been seen. For some time Faramir dwelled on the thought of turning south again to follow the capturer's possible path, but he then decided that Éomer would have thought it that possibility, too. He rode straight on westward, thinking about the dream. It had not occurred again, but Lady Arwen had been sure that the prisoner was her husband, and they both had fallen silent for a while. Faramir had not had the heart to tell her how deplorable that prisoner had looked like, but he had felt that the life of that man was fading. If anything could be done for him either Éomer or he himself had to find him quickly – or his life lay in the hands of that young boy he had watched at the bars.  
  
He hoped to find some answers soon enough.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 53, the castle  
  
Vlohiri had seen the healer's face and instinctively known that he must listen carefully. Lomac's voice had been low but forceful, telling the boy that he should not leave the room, but look after the prisoner at all times, change the cold cloth on this forehead and around his calves every time they were too dry or too warm and wait for the minute the man was awake enough to give him some tea to drink.  
  
The boy's head was swimming. Lomac had left him to take care of all the other patients he had. Now Vlohiri sat at the head of the bed watching Aragorn breathe. He feared that the man would die that night, and though he wanted to be strong he could not hold back the tears. He knew that something terrible had happened when Lomac had cursed (he supposed) in that strange language again and had hastily ordered him to fetch more pieces of cloth and a new bucket with water. After that he had called for Medros, but the Lieutenant was not found. So the healer prepared more kingsfoil in hot water to change the bandages and spared the rest for a small cup to enjoy the steam. Vlohiri needed the easing, but it was short-lived.  
  
The prisoner's breathing sped up, and Vlohiri waited anxiously for him to open his eyes, but the look was that of a haunted man.  
  
"Water," he whispered and when he swallowed he coughed again. The boy hastened to fetch a cup of tea and when the prisoner had turned halfway back held it to his lips. The taste was the same, but he gulped it down. The boy brought water in another cup.  
  
"Lomac changed the cloth twice. Is it still bad?" he asked when he was finished. Aragorn closed his eyes instead of answering. "He is gone right now to other patients. But I change the cloth – the others, I mean. And I stay here." He put down the cup and cocked his head to see in the prisoner's eyes. "Please, are you all right? Aragorn?" The answer was the shadow of a smile, quickly gone, but for the boy it was a sign that the man had not yet given up the fight.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 57, Gondor, westbound  
  
Snow and drizzle had stopped when the small group pitched a camp near the River Gilrain, which still carried rapid waters. They could not dare to cross it in the darkness, so they had halted between tall trees, now bare of leaves, bowing over the river's edge. The place was the best to choose. Some bushes and few bigger rocks granted a protection from the icy cold winds. Faramir was glad to dismount. He knew that he had not regained his strength to the full, and the long hours in the saddle exhausted him more he would admit.  
  
Three men left the camp in search for dry wood to light a fire, and returned with some hands full that would last the night and warm the water, for it was too cold to drink from the stream. Faramir put his blanket on the cold and almost grey grass. He was tired, his hands and feet cold, and he gladly accepted a cup of hot water to drink and warm him up. Deep in thoughts he held the cup with both hands, stared into the fire, but instead of the flames saw the man on the floor in that cell, then the boy at the door.  
  
He had dreamt of his brother's death long ago, and to his regret it had come true. He could not shake the image that the unconscious prisoner of his dream would face the same fate.  
  
"My Lord, rest," one of the man said, and Faramir turned, startled. The same moment an arrow out of the darkness whistled past, so close Faramir could feel the slight touch of the feather on his neck. Instinctively he dodged, crouched away from the fire. Tried to pierce the darkness, but it was impenetrable.  
  
"Quick, retreat!" he ordered, and the men gathered in the complete darkness behind the stones, watching, waiting. Looking beyond the lively fire.  
  
"We have to follow him," a guard said, but Faramir held him back.  
  
"There is no use trying to follow him. He will be gone by now."  
  
"He might try it again."  
  
"We will set out a watch."  
  
"It might be the same man you fought."  
  
Faramir nodded.  
  
"That is what I thought."  
  
Mixed with the sounds of the water they heard hoofs on the hard ground. For now they would be safe.  
  
* * * 


	8. Chapter 8

Day 59, Gondor, westbound  
  
The men eyed the soft hills and curves in the slope alongside the mountain foothills cautiously. Since the night they had been attacked at the River Gilrain a certain nervousness had overcome them, and every league they covered could bear potential danger. The landscape was jagged, and only a path wide enough for carts had been built in long ago. There was no escape from an attack, and every men was eager to leave the mountains behind. It was already afternoon, and the sun set. They spurred their horses, but still it would be half an hour's ride to reach the open plains again.  
  
Faramir would have preferred to stick out a camp among the rocks to escape the cold wind, but under the circumstances it was advised to better endure the wind than an assault. The preceding day they had searched for traces of the assassin. He had ridden southward, crossed the river, and then his trace was lost on the stony ground of the southern foothills. Unwilling to let him escape they had lost valuable time searching, but finally decided to get back on route. They were alarmed now; no second assault would be that easy.  
  
The Prince pressed his horse to gallop. Hollow echoes of the hoofs accompanied their hasty ride, but the plains got in sight. Grey clouds covered the sky; there would be only daylight for another half hour. The stern faces of his companions lightened up when they left the ominous grey mountains behind. It was the moment the first arrow flew.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 59, the castle  
  
He could carry two buckets at a time without pausing from the fountain up the stairs of the eastern tower. It was something he was proud of; finally he had gained some strength. Though he would not volunteer for another week in the mine the work had given him something he needed when he met the boys. With the pleasant thought that he would no longer be easily beaten up he entered the small room, put the buckets near the fireplace and poured one part into a big pot like he had done many times the last week. Aragorn was half-sitting in the bed while Lomac stood at the table.  
  
"Your wounds have healed," the healer said lowly while he stuffed weed back into a little leather sac. "There is nothing more I can do for you."  
  
Vlohiri glanced at Aragorn, but the man's face was unreadable, his voice flat.  
  
"Lt. Medros knows it?"  
  
"Medros has been breathing down my neck for days. I cannot withhold him any longer."  
  
There was a long pause, and the boy hung the pot over the fire, then stacked it up with some twigs and short cut branches. Lomac handed him two bowls to rinse. Aragorn looked down upon the cover, lost in his thoughts. Vlohiri washed the bowls thoroughly and shook them to get the rest of the water off.  
  
"When will they come?" the prisoner finally asked.  
  
"Tonight."  
  
Vlohiri looked up from the bowl, suddenly afraid that something terrible would happen. Aragorn's chin had dropped to his chest, and for a long moment his eyes were closed.  
  
"Send the boy back to the kitchen."  
  
"I will not, and he will not go," the healer answered in a tone that made any contradiction superfluous. Vlohiri was surprised, but went on cleaning the spoons as if he had not heard it.  
  
"He should not be here."  
  
"There are many things that should not have happened." The healer put his baskets together and lit a pipe. "But we live in the present time. You cannot change what lies behind you."  
  
Vlohiri gave back the bowls and carried the hot water to the table. The healer brewed tea, and the boy brought one cup to the bed.  
  
"Maybe your friends come back," he whispered when he helped Aragorn to drink.  
  
The man stared at him with eyes full of sadness.  
  
"There is no hope for help, Vlohiri. Éomer was here. He did not find me. Why should he come back?"  
  
"Please, you cannot make it alone." Vlohiri was desperate. Tonight they would take Aragorn back into that dark, damp, and cold place, and he could not think of anything else but the haunted and depressed look of the prisoner. "If you try... You know, Medros just waits to kill you."  
  
"He might. But my friends would only return if they got a message. If they knew where to search." He turned away. "But I have been missing for such a long time that they might have given up."  
  
Vlohiri put down the cup, not knowing what to say.  
  
"There is something a friend of mine waits for," Lomac said standing behind him. The boy almost jumped. The cup tumbled over the floor with a hollow sound. "And I promised to bring it to him as soon as possible." The healer looked at Aragorn, then at Vlohiri. "And at the moment I cannot spare time for a two day travel to the east." His stare was intense, and the boy could not evade it. "It would be very convenient if I had someone to trust with this delivery."  
  
Vlohiri swallowed hard and bit his lower lip.  
  
"You sure you don't want to go yourself?"  
  
Lomac breathed deeply.  
  
"Too many people here are sick," he said shaking his head. "I simply cannot leave. Well, now, lad, think about it." After a long glance to Aragorn he returned to the table.  
  
For a moment the boy felt numb. All his dreams, wishes, moments he had hoped for would come to happen – now he was given the opportunity. He could do something that was worth doing. Away from the dishes, from the dull kitchen work, from the mine! His heart beat fast and hard as if it would burst out of his ribcage at any second. He would be the one to leave the castle for a delivery. But not only that! He would search for help for Aragorn! Finally he raised his head to face the man. Vlohiri had never seen a man stare at him with such intensity.  
  
"I'll make it," the boy said, his voice only a breath.  
  
The prisoner looked as if he was struggling for a decision that he would never have made without the urgency. And that he still might regret.  
  
"Are you sure? This will be a long way. If you do not find Éomer on his way you will have to go to Minas Tirith." Vlohiri's mouth was too dry for words. He nodded still facing him. Aragorn bent forward. "You have to ask for Lady Arwen." He let go his breath, breaking the eye contact. Thoughtful.  
  
"Lady Arwen, all right," Vlohiri repeated to make Aragorn speak again, take away his hesitation. He was so eager now to leave that he thought he could not wait any longer.  
  
"You need something to prove that you were sent by me."  
  
Vlohiri gaped at him.  
  
"What... what are you thinking of?"  
  
Lomac had put some of his belongings into a sack and left the room, closing the door firmly shut behind him. Vlohiri heard the lock being placed in the eye. But he had no feeling of being locked in. It was more like being protected. Aragorn looked the boy up and down.  
  
"Give me your belt."  
  
"My... belt?" he echoed disbelieving.  
  
"And I need a sharp stone. Hurry!" Vlohiri ran to the window. He knew from his climbing that some of the smaller stones were loose. It was quite easy to rip one out. He stepped back to the bed. Aragorn had turned to his right side, as far as the shackles allowed. He grimaced with frustration. "Put a piece of wood under the belt so I can reach it." The boy handed him the stone and hurried to oblige.  
  
"What are you going to do?" he then dared to ask, holding the belt on the wood so Aragorn could scratch the first fine line.  
  
"Put my name on it."  
  
"Your..." He frowned and, twisting his head to read it, frowned even more. "But... these are just... lines." Aragorn eyed the boy impatiently.  
  
"These are Elvish runes," he explained. "You will have to dye it to read it." He finished the last scratch. A smile tugged at his lips when Vlohiri took back the belt with a mixture of pride and disbelief. "Do not show it to anyone. Do you hear me?" The boy showed no reaction. "There are men out there who might not be friendly to you. Are you sure you would recognise Éomer?" The boy nodded, closing his belt. "When you will have delivered that package for Lomac you will be on your own. Do you still think you can do that?" Again a nod. Aragorn sighed deeply. The thought of sending the boy away in a matter of such urgency left the bitter feeling of exploiting the innocent child. His chances of surviving the weeks of marching to Minas Tirith were slim – and yet the best he had. Aragorn's hatred of the Lady suddenly flared. He tore at the chains, clenched his teeth and would have screamed. But Vlohiri's frightful wide-open eyes forced him to control himself.  
  
"Are you... are you all right? Aragorn?"  
  
The prisoner let his chin drop to his breast. He looked wretched. When he spoke his voice was low and depressed.  
  
"I fought Orcs and Trolls in Moria. I fought ten thousand Uruk-hai at the fortress of Helms Deep. And I battled with my friends at my side the armies from Mordor... And now, by a twist of evil fate that none of my predecessors would ever held possible, I cannot help myself."  
  
"I will leave Deromonor as soon as Lomac sends me."  
  
With an effort Aragorn raised his head again.  
  
"Do not come to the dungeon again, no matter when you will leave."  
  
"You cannot forbid it," Vlohiri obstinately replied.  
  
"No... I cannot. But you should not risk it. Will you listen to me?"  
  
It was a hard decision, and Vlohiri did not want to promise it. Finally he nodded.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 59, Gondor, westbound  
  
One of his men was hit, fell from his horse, and Faramir did not know how many attackers lay hidden when they suddenly broke out of the bushes. He counted seven, eight, with bows and arrows, some with swords. No time to evade. Spurring his horse he drew his own sword, rode straight into the man, giving him no change to bend the bow. He hit him forcefully. The man toppled over, lay flat on his face without moving again, but Faramir felt the blow up to his arm. The weapon seemed to vibrate in his hand; he could barely hold on. Another arrow missed him by chance. He turned, facing the foe, taking the sword into his left hand. Two of his men lay on the ground, their horses gone. One was fighting from the saddle, the other two had beaten their opponents, but the fight went on. Faramir swung his sword, slashing the robber's right arm. He went down screaming. When the Prince bent again from the saddle he was torn down, thrown on the grass. His horse suddenly jumped, startled, and raced off. The man with the hood grimaced, a dagger shone in his hand, raised to stab his heart. In the last moment Faramir brought up his sword to pierce the man's side. He ended his life quickly. Turning he saw his men on the ground, motionless. The robbers took their belongings faster than Faramir could reach them. Two on one horse, spurring them, four of the eight men left the field, galloping south. The others remained motionless on the cold and hard ground.  
  
Breathlessly Faramir sheathed his sword and knelt beside one of his men. He found him unconscious but alive as well as three others. The fifth man had died from an arrow wound to his back. He rose again, knowing he could do nothing for him but grief, for he had to take care of his companions who were still alive. But the strange attackers had left them nothing more than the clothing. The sacks with food and flint stones were gone as well as their horses. The Prince squinted into the setting sun where the men had ridden. It was all too obvious that even this ambush had been set up to kill him. It was a dreadful thought that an innocent man had lost his life instead.  
  
In the fading light Faramir trod through the place of the fight when suddenly he found one dead man with a familiar face. He squatted and shoved away the hood. His clothing was that of a poor man from the plains, but Faramir knew he had seen him in Minas Tirith. He was one of the noble men who left shortly after the coronation of the King. He could not put a name to his face as much as he thought about it.  
  
"My Lord, we should go back to the foothills as long as we have light."  
  
Faramir rose slowly, nodding.  
  
"We bury our friend tomorrow."  
  
"But, sire..."  
  
"We will not leave him like this."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 59, the castle, evening  
  
Bayonor and Lanar followed Medros upstairs to the small room in the eastern tower. They had waited for this day to come, and Medros was more than eager, almost jolly, to fulfil the task that had been taken out of his hands two weeks ago. Upon entering his face was unreadable; he strictly kept his feelings for himself. He had brought the chains and harness, and not even the stare of the prisoner spoiled his mood. He glanced at the healer and the boy, both standing to his left, and while the healer's expression was hidden behind beard and bushy eyebrows the boy looked as if would cry any moment. He stepped closer to him and bent down.  
  
"We will take him back now where he belongs, and you, boy, will not ever get near the dungeon. Did I make myself clear?" The boy was too frightened to answer, and Medros swiftly turned, joined his men at the bed.  
  
"There is no need to threaten him," the prisoner said.  
  
Bayonor sneered, but Medros cut him off.  
  
"I still ask myself how that bucket came toppling down the stairs that night, and I think..." He glared at Vlohiri, who shrunk beside the healer. "...I think I have the answer to it." He nodded to Lanar, who pulled the stick out of his pocket to gag the prisoner again, while Bayoner was fastening the foot chains after having thrown down the cover.  
  
Vlohiri was about to step forward, to do something – anything – to make the men stop, but Lomac grabbed his shoulder, held him back at his side.  
  
"You cannot help him anymore," he said softly.  
  
Medros glanced back. He had known all the time that the boy was pure trouble, and he would punish him with more than ten days in the mine if he ever caught him near the dungeon. This was his second pleasant thought of the day. He pulled the rough woollen tunic over the prisoner's head, and only when they had him blindfolded he dared to open the handcuffs. Quickly they pulled the sleeves over the arms and fastened the harness to shackle the prisoner again. He did not resist, and Medros was disappointed, wondering what changed the man's mood. Bayonor and Lanar grabbed him under the armpits to raise him from the bed. Aragorn stumbled the first steps under the sheer force when they tore him to the door.  
  
Medros pierced Vlohiri with his stare.  
  
"As I said, if I see you in the eastern tower, you are done for." Then he left.  
  
Vlohiri would not have borne another second. He trembled so hard he sat on the ground, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Lomac waited until the footsteps of the guards were gone, quickly checked if the floor was empty, then closed the door and squatted at Vlohiri's side.  
  
"So you will leave?" he asked lowly, but the boy only cried. "Pull yourself together, lad, he will not die from another week in the dungeon! He is stronger than that!"  
  
"He will kill him. I know it."  
  
Lomac grabbed the boy's arms.  
  
"No, he will not! Lord Sadur made himself very clear. The prisoner will survive. Maybe longer than you when you cannot refrain from visiting him."  
  
Vlohiri drew up his nose, finally facing the healer.  
  
"I won't."  
  
"So you will deliver my package, very well. And did he give you a message for his friends? Don't look at me like this! He knows that he has no chance to escape alone. The way they took him downstairs is the way it will be. Medros will chain him upright to the wall if he has to, but he will not be sloppy again."  
  
"How..."  
  
"How I know of it? Now, ill news travel fast, my friend. And I get around in the castle. I hear this and that. That friend of yours escaped Medros when he opened the door and a servant found him and two of the guards unconscious on the floor in the dungeon. If the prisoner had taken time he could even have locked them up." A little smile tugged at his lips, and somehow the boy felt proud of what Aragorn had done. "Well, he is a very trained poacher, is he not?" Vlohiri swallowed. He was afraid. He did not know what the healer meant. Slowly Lomac rose. "As I said I have a friend, who is also a healer, in the little village two day-rides eastwards from here." He eyed the boy sternly. "Do you think you can make it?"  
  
"Yes," he whispered.  
  
"Now that this is settled, you can carry some of that stuff to my study. You cannot go right now, anyway, and I have to take some time to, well, collect what I will hand to you." Whistling he opened the door, put half of his belongings into Vlohiri's hands, took the rest and marched down the stairs. It seemed that his knees did not ache anymore.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 60, the castle  
  
Narana had looked at him with an unbelieving smile when he came to ask for bread and apples and the few belongings he had (not more than a spare pair of trousers and a warm jacket). After a moment she had realised that it was no joke, and she had tried ineffectively to talk him out of it. Then Lomac had entered the kitchen, and Narana had quarrelled with the healer that the boy was much too young to leave the castle alone. Lomac had remained silent until she was finished, then simply added that the boy could need some dried meat, too. It had been too much for the cook to accept the boy's leave. She had cried silently, and Vlohiri had not known what for – his forthcoming absence from work or the fact that he might get killed.  
  
At night Vlohiri had been too excited to find sleep. After the excitement of being chosen as a messenger and the sorrow of Aragorn's return to the dungeon he finally heard the voice of reason in his head again. It told him clearly that this journey might claim his life. There were so many obstacles to overcome that no one could tell him how to find a safe route. Lomac had talked much during the early evening hours, but even he, experienced as he was, could not give him more than pieces of advice. He knew too well how dangerous a journey like this would be. In the end he had made him hope that the evil times were gone, and no strange beasts would cross his way. And that he should stick to the old route running from west to east.  
  
Vlohiri sat beside the trader's place on the cart, his sack hung over his shoulders, and while Lomac waved him, smiling with confidence, he but thought about the sudden weight of responsibility that was laid upon him. He nodded shortly. It felt... strange to leave the thick walls of the castle behind him. Even though he thought he would be safe until they reached the village he felt uneasy. The walls always had protected him – against cold and famine, against robbers and murderers. Within the castle he might have been easily neglected, but now that he left it seemed to have been a warm and cozy place.  
  
"'Tis not for long," Garawin murmured and smacked his lips to spur the horse. "You be back in a few days." Vlohiri did not answer. If not much he had learned that secrecy was advisable if he wanted to reach Minas Tirith alive. Looking forward on the stony path he imagined himself meeting a beautiful woman, who would ask him what his name was and why he so desperately wanted to speak her. And then he would take off his belt and show her that her husband was still alive. And she would be grateful and embrace him – and sent a whole army to save Aragorn.  
  
It was a beautiful thought and he sighed with pleasure. Garawin mockingly raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Dreamt of a night in cosy feathers, eh?" he sniggered, and the boy erased the smile from his face.  
  
"No. I have a delivery to make."  
  
"Yeah, I know that. Hope you're not some spoilt lad with an attitude. Would not have taken you up if Lomac had not spoken for you. Now, be grateful, hear me? You'd walk then."  
  
"I am grateful," Vlohiri stressed and tried to look as if he meant it. He could not risk being left alone in the wilderness. Not now. He would not even know where the village was. And Lomac had said that his friend would give him shelter at least for a night.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 63, Gondor, in the wilderness  
  
Faramir called the small group to a rest. From the map he knew that the River Morthond was more than two day rides away, and without a horse it would take him an his wounded men four or even five days. It made no sense to try and reach the ford on foot. They had found water, a small brook coming from the mountain foothills, but they had had only one leather bottle to save some for later. And though they had not yet left the old western path they had met no one. Looking at his wounded and tired companions Faramir knew they would not last much longer without food or shelter. The barren lands did not soothe the eye. Nothing more than dry and hard grass for miles, only partly broken by rocks which stood out like the backs of giant trolls.  
  
"Sire, there is someone coming!"  
  
Faramir squinted. In the distance a horse with a cart could be seen, coming up from the southern plains.  
  
"We meet him half way!" he ordered, and they trudged on, their speed even slower than that of the cart. When the coachman was close enough Faramir called him to halt. "Where do you come from, coachman?" he asked after introducing himself.  
  
"A farm. No more than a mile." The man eyed the five strangers disapprovingly. "Need food, hum? But it will cost you something, eh?"  
  
"We will handle that."  
  
"Hope so. I will return quite soon!" The Prince did not like the look and the demeanor of the man at all, but even now he was no one to fear, and he spurred his horse as soon as they had thanked him.  
  
Faramir turned to his men.  
  
"One mile. We are going to have shelter tonight."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 63, the castle  
  
Medros did not want to hear Bayonor's complaints again. He was sick of having to deal with this valuable prisoner, who bore more trouble than the rest of the men alongside the tunnels hacking and digging. He knew exactly what his friend would say when he had reached him.  
  
"He does not work, Medros!" the younger guard hissed, trying to keep his voice under control. "He pauses so often he infects the others! What do you want me to do? Ignore it? If it goes on like this it comes to a standstill in two days! There are traders waiting, and the Lord..."  
  
"I know all of that," Medros cut him off, raising his hand. "I will talk to Lord Sadur about this... behaviour and hope that he will realise that we can only handle the situation our way."  
  
"There is no real hope he will see it like that." Bayonor spat on the ground. "If we could let him taste the whip again it would force the others to work quicker. You know that too, Medros, so, I hope you can convince the Lord." The young man turned and walked down the tunnel, while the Lieutenant breathed deeply before he left the mine to meet with the Lady's son.  
  
The Lord had thought about Beregor's failure and that Tebenor was sent out to meet Prince Faramir when he turned westwards, and still he had not heard anything from either man or a watchman along the old path. He wondered if Tebenor could have missed the Prince and if what would the Prince do when he arrived at Deromonor? Sadur had realised long ago that he might have been a son of Denethor, but never be as noble a man as Faramir, the Ranger of Gondor, a lover of fine arts, and the friend of the King of Gondor. He would always be a bastard, neglected in the row of ancestors, never be sung of for his victories and deeds. His mother had taught him that no victory was given, but must be laboured for. Nothing could be taken for granted, but had to be achieved in a process. Therefore he had learned to fight, and he had stood his ground against upcoming Uruk-hai and Orcs, Mumakil and Haradim. He had not fled into the safety of the castle. But his deeds were few in the eyes of the great victory that two Hobbits had achieved, and when the festivities were over his return was that of a tired soldier who had just survived. The King had praised them all, he remembered, but Ithilien was given to Faramir.  
  
In a way he hated Faramir more than he could hate the King. Truly, Aragorn, Arathorn's son, had returned from the woods somewhere in the North to claim a throne that had long been deserted, but Faramir had just been the Steward's second son, an unloved son after all, and why should he become the Prince of Ithilien? What was he more than a man who preferred reading to fighting?  
  
Sadur looked over the gardens of the castle. It would be very different to live in Minas Tirith again, to enjoy the brilliance and beauty of the City, the lively days and warm nights. It was what he had enjoyed during his childhood and most of his adolescent time. He dreamt of overlooking the City in its splendor in the next summer. It would be an edifying moment to be cheered, to be respected as a just leader. There was no moment he longed for more than this.  
  
A knock on the door interrupted his musing. Medros entered with a stern face and fast steps.  
  
"My Lord." He bowed and stood in the middle of the small and cold room, waiting for Sadur to begin the conversation. But the noble man at the window was not yet willing to think about the little necessities of the guards or peasants. He was dreaming of Minas Tirith's highest building, the White Tree, and a jolly crowd of followers. When he finally turned away from the window Sadur bore an expression of unwillingness.  
  
"Medros, why do you come to me?"  
  
"My Lord, the prisoner, who your mother ordered to work in the mine, refuses to do his share."  
  
"Why should I bother myself with these minor details?"  
  
Medros swallowed a harsh reply and continued in a polite tone,  
  
"Your order was that the prisoner should not be whipped or in another form punished severely. I would like to know if you can give me a piece of advice to make him work. His disobedience already influences other prisoners."  
  
Sadur turned back to the window and let out his breath. His mother's decision could be regretted but not revised. Her hatred was stronger than he had thought of. But as with all decisions his mother had taken, he would never openly contradict it. She had a mind of her own, and she had proven that she was successful. And her order had been strict: The King should survive as long as possible. It was said that the Dunedain could become two hundred years old. He would see a long time of serving before him.  
  
"How did you punish him so far?"  
  
"I chained him to the wall one night, but... to no avail."  
  
"Threaten him," Sadur said slowly facing Medros again. "You might not be successful punishing him with the whip, but you can hit his heart." Medros raised his eyebrows and waited in silent ignorance. Sadur grimaced. "What was the name of that boy the healer chose?"  
  
"Flea," Medros answered and suddenly understood.  
  
"Flea... Well, send this boy back to the mine, and if the King shows signs of disobedience, make clear that the boy will suffer for it."  
  
"Very well, my Lord."  
  
"And continue to make his nights uncomfortable. Maybe this will encourage him to move during the day."  
  
"As you wish." He kept for himself that a man like the King would not be broken because of restraints during the night.  
  
"But... Medros," Sadur held him back, "there is no punishment beyond a limit. Do you understand me?"  
  
"Yes, my Lord." He hastened to leave the room, swallowing hard about the accusation he would kill the boy to gain a victory.  
  
Medros had frequently checked the dungeon's entrance during the last evenings, but never found the boy nearby. When he stepped down there now he heard nothing but the soft clanging of chains, a sign that the valuable prisoner had been taken back and was still awake. No whispered words, no hasty footsteps. Would finally the warning have been strong enough to educate even a boy like Flea? He could not believe it. He had seen the boy cry like a baby when they had brought the King back into his cell. The bond between them had got strong, and he knew that a child would not endure a long absence. He did not know who his parents were, but he had never seen him with either mother or father.  
  
He went to the kitchen. Narana was cleaning the floor and barely looked up when he entered.  
  
"Where's that boy – Flea?" he asked when he did not see him at once.  
  
Narana rose, grimacing with pain and leaned on the broomstick.  
  
"He is not here."  
  
"I can see that!" Medros spat. "Where is he?"  
  
"With the healer, perhaps."  
  
"He is not. I saw the old man at Bayonor's place."  
  
"Then he is gone."  
  
"Gone? What do you mean, woman? Where did he go?"  
  
"He left the castle," Narana answered sadly. "Lomac wanted him to do something for him – a package, ah, I do not know."  
  
"When did he go? And with whom?" Medros almost grabbed the cook's arm to twist it, when she did not answer instantly.  
  
"I don't know. The healer knows. But he is gone for some days by now."  
  
"Damn it!" Medros turned on his heals, ran upstairs to search for Lomac. When he found him at a patient's bed he was out of breath. "Where did you sent that boy – Flea?" he bellowed.  
  
Lomac ended his examination as if he was still alone, spoke some friendly words, and touched the woman's arm slightly before rising. Only then, with his little sac in one hand and a pot in the other, he turned to the fuming Lieutenant.  
  
"I had an urgent delivery to make," he said flat-voiced. "And the boy had nothing to do. So I chose him. Get out, please, the patient needs rest."  
  
Medros stepped back, so the healer could close the door.  
  
"Where did you sent him, Lomac? He should not have left the castle."  
  
"I did not hear from Narana that he was bound to the castle. A friend of mine needed some herbs I could spare. He will have them delivered by now."  
  
Medros frowned.  
  
"And you expect him back tonight? Tomorrow?"  
  
"Tomorrow. Or the day after that."  
  
"With whom did he go?"  
  
"Garawin. He had the same way."  
  
"Garawin? That old drunkard?" The healer did not answer, and Medros hit his fist against the wall. "Where did they go to?"  
  
"As I said... a friend..."  
  
"I heard that," Medros cut him off. "Where? Which direction?"  
  
"Southeast."  
  
"He is gone for three days, right?"  
  
"Could be."  
  
The Lieutenant turned angrily and almost ran down the corridor to find Lanar and Bayonor.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 64, the castle  
  
Lanar left the castle with two trustworthy guards to search for the boy, while Medros hoped he could avoid meeting Sadur in the meantime. It would be unbearable to admit that he had lost the boy from under his very nose. It would be worse to be mocked for it. Still the pressure remained to make the King work again in the mine. Bayonor had been right: The refusal of one man led to the refusal of others, thinking that they would not be punished, too. It was hard to keep the mine going when a rebellion was imminent.  
  
With heavy steps Medros reached the dungeon. It was early in the morning, and he heard other guards pushing the prisoners out of their cells and down the tunnel to the mine entrance. Shouts and rattling of chains resounded from the corridors. The King stood at the small window, his gaze directed to the plains at the foothills of the grey and rough mountainside. It had been cloudy during the night, so the morning was not as cold as the nights before, and a fine mist lay over the landscape. It would become a sunny and clear day, ideal to ride out and hunt.  
  
"What new kind of devilry has come to your mind, Medros?" he said without turning.  
  
"I come to bring you back to the mine – and this time you will work." He could see the noble man's mouth twitch. "In case you refuse obedience again, that boy from the kitchen – Flea – will be sent to the mine instead." He waited silently for the King's reaction. He bowed for a moment, breathing, thinking. Medros knew suddenly that Aragorn was aware of the boy's mission. He thought that perhaps the King had given the boy instructions where to go to, and that Lomac and the King conspired. It was outrageous to think of the consequences. He had to convince the King that the boy had not left the castle.  
  
"How could you sink so low to blackmail me with the boy's well-being?"  
  
Medros kept a stern face and firm voice.  
  
"The Lord and the Lady are interested in results. And I will make you work. I told you so before."  
  
The King turned slowly, and the Lieutenant tried to read his face. He found worry and determination and – curiosity. They were both treading on the edge of a knife.  
  
"You will not send the boy back to the mine."  
  
"If you lie down the shovel for one moment longer than you are allowed," Medros growled, "the boy will carry water buckets again." He stood firm, convincing, threatening with his presence. "And this time I will not restrict it to ten days." A long silence followed. Medros did not dare to evade the King's stare. He knew he would lose his credibility in a flash. "Shall I send for the boy to bring him down? Right now he is cleaning the dishes." Though the light was dim he could see the King's reaction. He would submit to the threat; Medros had won.  
  
"Leave him where he is," Aragorn replied flatly.  
  
Medros pulled the keys from under his cuirass and opened the door. Behind an expressionless face he celebrated his victory while he tightened the chains of the handcuffs and gagged the prisoner. Sadur would not know of the boy's escape (and Medros' sloppiness), and the prisoner would work though the threat had been a bluff.  
  
If the boy had not escaped it could have been a nice day.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 65, Gondor, north-east bound  
  
Rohan horses had always filled their breeders with pride, but right now Éomer could not help smiling about the sturdiness and stamina the beasts showed. They had been riding with hardly any rest for seven days now, and only the foothills of the southern mountains had slowed them for half a day. His followers looked happier than before; this was their element. They enjoyed nothing more than horseback riding and could ride on for weeks. Éomer remembered the stories he had been told when he was a little kid. The people of Rohan had had the fastest and best riders who ever crossed the great plains of their lands. He estimated they would need three more days to reach the ford of the River Morthond. On their way they would again ask the peasants and traders about their missing friend. Éomer swore to himself that they would find a trace. He did not want to think that Aragorn had been missing now for more than two months, and that his survival was unlikely. He would not allow any evil thought to rip away his hope.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 65, Gondor, eastbound  
  
They had made it safely to the village though Vlohiri had to take the reins for some time when Garawin fell asleep on his seat. But the mare seemed to know where they went, and without delay or meeting strangers they had arrived at dusk of the forth day.  
  
Vlohiri thanked the still not sober coachman and asked for the healer's home. It was easy to find, and the village was so small the boy was astonished. Deromonor's village was much bigger. Here he only saw a few huts along a small creek. An old woman swept the floor in the healer's house when Vlohiri entered. The room was bigger than the room Lomac called his study, but it was filled up with baskets, sacks, bowl, parchment rolls, cages with birds, which sang loud enough to be heard in every corner, and only a table with two old chairs and a bed at the wall near the fireplace.  
  
The woman left without a word, and the boy stepped closer, insecure what he should do. Shout? Wait? In the adjacent room he heard a soft humming. His curiosity won, and he stepped closer. The moment he stood on the threshold a man entered from the other side. Startled they both stood eye to eye, not knowing what to say.  
  
"Oh, hum, I did not expect visitors now," the man finally said in a deep and rolling tone. He spoke Westerling with an accent the boy had never heard before.  
  
"I am Flea – Vlohiri," he said and stepped back. "Lomac from Deromonor sends me."  
  
"Oh, hum, Deromonor, yes." They eyed each other. They were both small and slender, but the healer had a lot of dark brown hair and a wild looking beard with ends that touched his chest. Surrounded by wrinkles keen brown eyes gleamed in the shine of the fire. He was clad in a thick grey tunic and long skirt, which overlapped the trousers, and around his neck hung a strange kind of tool, made of silver. He outstretched a small, bony hand. It fitted exactly to Vlohiri's, only that the healer was much older, hard to say how old. "What have you got for me?"  
  
"A package." Vlohiri hastened to unwrap it from his sack and handed it the bearded man.  
  
"Something else?"  
  
"Oh, yes." Flushing the boy added a piece of parchment, which the healer unfolded and read. Vlohiri waited restlessly. "Why do you keep the birds?" he asked when he could not wait any longer. It was such a strange place to be in!  
  
"Now, lad, wait, will you? I am reading." And he read the clear handwriting of Lomac again. Putting it down he said, "Now, tell me something about you, Vlohiri. Lomac says you can be trusted. Well, and even if I do not want to pry into your life, I am gleaming with curiosity."  
  
Vlohiri was insecure how to react.  
  
"What did Lomac write... and what is your name?"  
  
"Oh, did he not tell you? Well, Lomac is getting old now! I am Trossénen, and I have walked these lands for quite a long time... And to what he wrote – now, you do not know how to read?" Vlohiri shook his head. "Ah, he should have taught you! It is so essentially important! How will you tell anyone about your hopes and dreams, about your plans and wishes – and how shall all this survive you when it is not written down?" Vlohiri looked puzzled. Trossénen laughed loudly. "Forgive an old man, young boy! I have lived my life with people who could not read or write until I came. I taught many, many of them! And I must say... I like it! It is worth doing. But, please, how rude I am... sit down, I will make tea for us."  
  
Vlohiri chose the place next to the fire and watched the healer's swift and precise movements, which gave him the appearance of a younger man.  
  
"Could you teach me, too?" he then asked when the tea steamed before him in a big cup.  
  
"Sure, sure I could! If you dare to go out in the wilderness you should be able to learn letters, hum?" He laughed again.  
  
"Then – I would like to return – some day."  
  
Trossénen's mouth broadened with a smile.  
  
"Ah, that's what I like! A boy that does not think about battles and horses and Kings! Yes, Vlohiri, return whenever you want. But I know, you have not the time right now." Again Vlohiri asked about Lomac's letter. "Yes, he wrote that you are a very trustworthy young man, and that I shall help you to get further east. Your road might be long." The smile faded. "You were trusted with a difficult mission, I suppose. What can be so urgent that a young boy like you is sent on such a hazardous way?"  
  
Vlohiri did not want to lie, but he could not dare to answer truthfully.  
  
"I would... Please, do not send me away if I cannot answer you."  
  
"Ho, now, my friend!" Trossénen raised his hands defensively. "As I said – I have no right to pry! I will try to keep my curiosity in check. Please, drink, and I am sure I will find something to eat for you." He rose again and returned with bread and cheese. "Help yourself. What did you do for my friend Lomac? I did not know that he took up lads like you in his service."  
  
Vlohiri stuffed a big chunk of cheese in his mouth and gulped it down with the warm tea. He began to feel better.  
  
"I had to help him... take care of a prisoner."  
  
"A prisoner?" Trossénen's thick eyebrows rose in surprise. "That is something new. In the old days prisoners suffered a lot, and they never saw a healer when they needed one." He waited, but the boy kept on eating. "With what was he sick?"  
  
Vlohiri frowned, thoughtful.  
  
"He had fever – Lomac said. He was really hot, and slept most of the time." Trossénen nodded. "And then..." He stopped, not knowing if he should continue. But the healer's look was an invitation to tell him everything. "Ar... He said to me I should turn him on the side, and I saw... He had been whipped, and all those gashes were... I don't know the word, but it looked awful."  
  
The healer's face showed deep sorrow.  
  
"Inflamed. The word you lost: The wounds were inflamed. That hurts very much."  
  
Vlohiri grimaced with despair. It was dreadful alone to remember it.  
  
"He was in great pain then... I don't know for how long, but I ..." Again he stopped. Trossénen seemed to understand.  
  
"You stayed with him, lad?"  
  
"Yes, the whole time. I only left the room to fetch water or wood."  
  
"That was very kind of you."  
  
Vlohiri felt uneasy being praised like that.  
  
"I could help. That was... good."  
  
"Something worth doing. I know how that feels. And there will be more that you can do, I am sure. Tell me, did the noble Lady order it?" he continued knowingly, and Vlohiri, missing the undertone, nodded.  
  
"The Lord did," he said and looked regretfully at the last piece of bread.  
  
"Ah, young Lord Sadur. A man of higher standing – but not high enough." He stifled (not "stifled") a smile when the boy looked up to him. "Well, there is some good left then."  
  
"He ordered it personally, and Lomac said the Lord had been down in the dungeon." Saying it Vlohiri realised that Aragorn would now be sitting in this small, dark cell with little hope of freedom. He shivered at the mere thought the King could eventually attempt to escape one more time. What would his help mean if the King was dead long before he reached Lady Arwen?  
  
"Very well, there is hope not everything is rotten."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Oh... nothing, only higher politics, nothing we have to know about... Well, you can put your blanket on the ground near the fire if you want to. I hope I do not stumble over you in the morning. I will be up at sunrise."  
  
"Me, too," Vlohiri assured the healer, and they both went to get their beds ready.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 66, Gondor, east of the River Ringlo  
  
They had reached the farm with their strength fading, and the woman was friendly enough to allow them to take shelter in the barn. Her two grown-up sons were suspicious and reserved about the strange guests, but as they had all come to know in the long years of war, outer appearance could deceive. So they had politely asked the men to put down their swords before they entered the main house. The woman shared a frugal meal with them, and they were grateful.  
  
"I saw you got two horses in the barn. We want to buy them," Faramir said when they finished eating.  
  
The elder son turned to him instantly, and, standing up, with a threatening look exclaimed,  
  
"So that is why you've come! You want to steal our horses!"  
  
Faramir leant back, his hands open and trying to calm. But he was aware of the man's fury.  
  
"I said we want to buy them. We were attacked and robbed three days ago west of the foothills of the White Mountains. They stole our horses, too, before they rode south."  
  
"That could all be a lie," the young man spat.  
  
"Sit down, Calun," his mother ordered, but Calun did not listen.  
  
"They came into our home, knowing that our father is gone. They outnumber us, mother!"  
  
"We will not rob you of the things you need. But as you see, two of my men are wounded, and we have to reach Lady Saborian's castle."  
  
"Why should we believe you?" Calun asked forcefully. "You said your name was Faramir. The only man of that name is the Prince of Ithilien."  
  
"That is who I am," Faramir reluctantly revealed, and opened his cloak. The tree of Gondor was embedded in his cuirass, and the mother gaped at him.  
  
Calun was not so easily convinced.  
  
"If you say you met robbers why did they leave you that cuirass?"  
  
"We put them to flight, but they were fast enough to steal our belongings and the horses."  
  
"A hard to believe story."  
  
"I cannot convince you any further, young Calun. If you allow us to sleep in the barn we will be more than grateful." He bowed slightly to the woman, who seemed shocked, and left the room with his men.  
  
Outside one of his companions, a young rider from Ithilien by the name of Orilan, said:  
  
"We could take the horses and bring them back when we return. They will never sell them, my Lord."  
  
"I will not steal anything from these poor people. We either buy the horses or leave in the morning on foot."  
  
"Very well, my Lord, but it will slow us down more than necessary."  
  
"Yes, but I can still sleep with my conscience clear." He eyed the young man sharply, and Orilan bowed.  
  
"It will be as you order."  
  
* * * 


	9. Chapter 9

Day 66, Gondor, southeast of Deromonor  
  
Trossénen talked with an old man. His beard was more white than grey, his clothes torn in some places, and when he limped to his cart he seemed not to have the strength to reach the bench. But he nodded in a humble way while the healer went on with his pleading, and, finally, Trossénen called to the boy to come and sit on the bench. The old man smelled of fire and smoke and eyed him with suspicion.  
  
"Too young he is," he growled. "What will he do then? There is nothing!"  
  
"He will find his way. And you help him as much as you can. I healed your wife, Herebrand, and you owe me."  
  
"I know, Trossénen, I know. No need to remind me of debts." Another deep growl that did not fit to the man's haggard appearance. "I will give him food and water when we get there, but I cannot promise more than that."  
  
"Do what you can for him," Trossénen pleaded, then turned his attention to Vlohiri. "It is still a long road, lad, and you might not find friends on the way. But this..." He handed him a rolled piece of parchment. "...will open you the door of every healer in every village you come to. Ask for them! Do not be shy! But only the healers, do you understand?" The boy nodded, and Trossénen handed him a second thing in a piece of cloth. "This is a gift you should use only when you are in danger." Frowning Vlohiri weighed it, but when he was about to unpack it, the healer put a hand on his arm. "Not now, lad." He gently touched his shoulder. "May there be others to help you. Do not linger." He nodded to Herebrand, and the old man spurred the pony.  
  
Vlohiri looked back. The time with Trossénen had been short but very educating and interesting. The healer had to only open his mouth, and the boy listened carefully to everything that the old man said was important, necessary to know. While Vlohiri had eaten, the healer had talked. It seemed that he wanted to teach the young boy in two hours what he should have learned in the past ten years.  
  
He would have loved to stay longer. Just to sit with his back to the fire, eat, drink tea, and listen to the stories and all the knowledge the man had gathered in his small house. The birds, he remembered, were used to exchange messages over great distances. So he had told Lomac what he needed. So he could get back an answer.  
  
Vlohiri thought about all the information. He felt blessed to have met Lomac and Trossénen, who both had shared so much with him in a short time. He dearly hoped that he could return to Trossénen and stay with him – even if he had to wash the clothes or rinse the dishes to earn a share of the man's wisdom.  
  
Herebrand told him with few words that he would not travel further than a farm still west of the River Morthond, and that from thereon Vlohiri would be alone. Though he had known it before the boy's heart sank. Being alone meant that there was no grown-up watching over him. He would have to make his own decisions. And the only decision he had yet taken alone was to leave the castle. Again the list of consequences put an icy finger on his breast. How would he go on? He knew how to read the sun and find the right direction, but that would not be enough. How could he get food and water – and where would he find shelter for the night? All these questions had come to him before, but now they were getting closer. His survival lay in his own hands. Vlohiri swallowed dryly. He was ten years old, but it would have been nice if he could age quickly.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 66, Gondor, southeast of River Ringlo  
  
Faramir had approached the two sons alone. Knowing his men would be too great a threat for the peasants, he had wanted to talk with them, tell them that he needed the horses badly. One of his men limped from a wound to his calf; the other had broken a rib when he had fallen off the horse. Orilan was right that they would need weeks to get to Deromonor on foot. The brothers had been reluctant to even sell the horses, but finally Faramir had promised them to bring them back on their way home.  
  
The horses, big and gentle in their nature, had no saddles for they were only used for the farm work and drawing the cart. Because of their built they could easily carry two riders, so only one man had to walk alongside. Orilan, who was the youngest, volunteered to run beside the beasts, so Faramir mounted behind a wounded soldier. But there was no need for running. The horses had never been used for competition, and they would not walk any faster than they usually did on the field. They trudged over the grass, and Orilan, unable to hide his grin, walked beside them.  
  
"How did you convince the brothers, my Lord? I would never had thought they would give them to us."  
  
Faramir smiled wearily.  
  
"People are always searching for... honesty." Orilan frowned at him. "They need something they can believe in. The moment I bade them farewell to leave on foot, they had made up their minds – and believed that we would not rob them."  
  
Orilan shook his head.  
  
"I truly admire you, my Lord."  
  
"You do not need to. I only stay true to my words."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 67, the castle  
  
Medros was furious and insecure at the same time. Lanar and his two companions had not yet returned, and Sadur had asked about the King and his behaviour. Medros could convince the Lord that the prisoner worked as ordered, but he did not know for how long. That day the prisoner had shown that he would not give in to every order, and with a demanding look Bayonor had put his hand on the whip. The Lieutenant had calmed him down, but the young guard would go his own way if the prisoner did not obey a second time.  
  
From the small room in the depth of the dungeon Medros had fetched an iron device with four holes and a lock to follow Sadur's second order – 'to make it uncomfortable' for the prisoner at night. Sadur had announced that he would step down to the dungeon once in a while. Medros knew that it had nothing to do with the King's well-being, but with that of all the other prisoners Sadur thought to be neglected. But Medros had done what the Lord had ordered; there would be no more complaints.  
  
He reached the cell where the King had been brought a while ago.  
  
"Has he eaten?" he asked Bayonor, who shortly nodded. "Very well." He turned to face the prisoner and opened the door to enter. "As the Lord of the castle ordered, you shall be more motivated to do your share."  
  
Aragorn glanced at the device in Medros' hands.  
  
"Your demand was fulfilled. There is no need to do this."  
  
"Lay down on the bench," Medros ordered and stepped closer. "Do it right now." He could hear Bayonor behind him; heard him breathe nervously. Aragorn did not move, but stared at the Lieutenant. Again Medros felt the superiority, and his anger flared. "Lay down," he commanded again and opened the device on one side. A part of him knew instantly he had gone too far. But there was no time to react.  
  
The King's back of the hand hit Medros' chin with all strength he could muster with the limited scope. It hurt. Badly. Medros stumbled back against the wall, dazed for a second. The shackle clanged on the floor. Aragorn grabbed the cuirass with both hands and rammed his head against Medros' forehead, all in a fluent motion. Bayonor slung his arm around the prisoner's neck and pulled back, strangling him. Medros groaned. The young guard caught Aragorn's elbow in the stomach, but did not lose his grip. The Lieutenant, his vision still blurring, punched the prisoner hard in the face. Bayonor wrestled him down to the ground. Aragorn tried to get hold of his captors arm, but the chain was too short.  
  
"Hold him!" Medros shouted and fetched the dropped device. "Bend him over!" Sweat poured down Medros' face when he struggled to squeeze both hands and feet of the prisoner into the rigid iron. Aragorn fought hard to escape it, but finally had no air left in his lungs.  
  
Medros pressed the iron bar down and closed the eye with a padlock. Panting he got up, held out his hand to help Bayonor.  
  
"He will never give in," the young guard hissed when he passed by. Medros silently agreed. A line of blood ran from the prisoner's nose, dripped on the stone. When Aragorn looked up, it was a challenge the Lieutenant had to accept. For four days by now the King had worked to save the boy from being sentenced, but now Medros was sure he wanted to know if the threat still existed. Again they were walking a thin line. The King himself had nothing to lose. If the boy had escaped the Lieutenant had nothing to threaten him with.  
  
A noise in the corridor made Medros break the eye contact. He cursed silently when he saw Sadur's broad figure fill the cell's door-frame.  
  
"My Lord." He bowed.  
  
The Lord squinted into the darkness to find the King sitting on the ground.  
  
"An ingenious measure, Lieutenant," he said lowly. "Did he resist?" Medros nodded. Answering would mean to find words that did not insult the Lord's and Lady's decision – a thing he simply could not do at the moment. A new headache arose and he wished nothing more than to leave. "Very well." He squatted in front of the prisoner. "You show a certain lack of co- operation, captive," he sneered, and Medros exhaled loudly. "Do you really want to see your little friend with you in the mine again?"  
  
"Is that all you can do, Sadur? Threaten me with children? Is that how you would reign the kingdom? By threat and blackmail? The people would never accept that!"  
  
Sadur smiled a small, self-confident smile.  
  
"They will. And I can promise you that my regency will be just."  
  
"You will never be the ruler of Gondor!"  
  
"Word goes that Lady Arwen is still searching for you. I hope she does not go too far."  
  
Aragorn would have thrown himself forward if it were not for the iron holding him.  
  
"If you hurt her, I'll kill you, I swear!"  
  
"Your threat does not bear any power, prisoner," Sadur replied coolly and rose. "As you have seen, all your attempts to escape this castle have been in vain." He looked at Medros for a moment, then returned his attention to the King. "You attacked one of my men. It seems a proper punishment..." Medros held his breath. If Sadur announced the boy to be sent to the mine he would not know what to say. "...to have you bound to this iron for some nights." With a nod to Medros he turned and left the dungeon. Medros hurried to lock the door and followed the Lord upstairs.  
  
"Is it true that the King's men are still searching for the prisoner?" he asked when he caught up.  
  
Sadur glanced at him like he was a servant too unimportant to talk to.  
  
"No. King Éomer was satisfied with his visit, I suppose. I do not expect others to arrive." A servant ran up to him, bowed and waited until Sadur asked him to speak while at the same time he dismissed the Lieutenant.  
  
"My Lord, the Lady wishes to see you immediately."  
  
"Very well." Sadur strode through the corridors to his mother's study. Upon his entering a young soldier straightened up and greeted him respectfully.  
  
"Deliver your message," the Lady said with a stress in her voice.  
  
The soldier raised his chin and handed the Lord a rolled piece of parchment. Sadur read Noratis words: 'Eight days ago the Prince of Ithilien was attacked at the western slope of the White Mountains near the River Ringlo. He survived the attack, but lost the horses. He walked with his men southwest. Lord Tebenor was killed.' The man swallowed. "That is the message. Lord Beregor and Lord Noratis expect your answer, my Lady, my Lord."  
  
Mother and son exchanged glances and ordered the soldier to wait outside.  
  
With the closing of the door the Lady's face contorted with anger.  
  
"Beregor is as stupid as he is large! Faramir is coming westwards! Something must have happened in Minas Tirith. There is no other explanation. He would not have left into the same direction without a clue."  
  
"There cannot be any clue, mother, that leads him here," he said calmly, thoughtful. "His coming might be for any reason, but not for the knowledge of the King's whereabouts. He might turn south now and cover that part of Gondor while Éomer took the western route."  
  
Lady Saborian eyed him.  
  
"I will not believe in any kind of coincidence, son." She sat down, took a piece of parchment out of the drawer and began writing in precise letters. "We will reinforce the castle with the help of our friends. And if Faramir walks in we will be prepared."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 68, Gondor, near the River Morthond  
  
The horses needed a rest as much as the riders. At one of the many creeks flowing from the River Morthond a little village had grown, and the inhabitants eyed the riders carefully when they dismounted and led the animals to the riverbank. Éomer gave the rein to his friend and told him that he would talk to the villagers.  
  
He came up with nothing. The captors had either chosen another path or the people were unwilling to help. But when he was about to return to the camp his men pitched, he saw a brown horse with a strangely familiar bridle and saddle. Quickly, without thinking, he crossed the creek to meet the man holding the horse.  
  
"Wait!" he yelled when the young man turned and pulled the horse away. "Wait!" Éomer caught up.  
  
"It is mine! Go away! You won't get it!" He tried to run, but the horse did not follow. Éomer grabbed the rein and stopped them both.  
  
"I will not take anything from you, lad. Just tell me where you got it."  
  
"I will not tell you!"  
  
"You will." He put a firm hand on the young man's shoulder. "This horse belongs to a friend of mine, and I demand to know who you got it from."  
  
"Let me go!" He squeezed the man's shoulder. "You hurt me!"  
  
"Answer me."  
  
"A man came into the village – he traded it for food and clothing."  
  
"Were there others with him?" A nod. "Do you know them?"  
  
"No. They came, they left the horses..."  
  
"Horses? There are more of them?"  
  
The young man looked as if he had made a big mistake.  
  
"Just two. And my father gave them clothing for it! They are ours now!"  
  
"We will see to that. Where is the other horse? Lead me to your father."  
  
Unwillingly the young man led the way. Reaching the house Éomer introduced himself and asked where the men had come from.  
  
"East. They came in a hurry, and they left in a hurry," the old man said smiling. "Strange people! We gave them what they wanted. It looked to me they would steal if they could not buy."  
  
"They might." Éomer frowned. "When did they come through?"  
  
"Two day ago. They were riding like hell."  
  
"I understand that." Again he looked at the horse, which belonged to Faramir, he was sure of that. Exhaling he turned to the old man. "The horses belong to the Prince of Ithilien." The man gaped at him. "I am sorry to take them away, but they are not rightfully yours."  
  
"They paid with them," he insisted.  
  
"We will give you what we can spare," the King said. "But – hopefully – the Prince will be alive to claim them back."  
  
With the horses he returned to his men.  
  
"Prince Faramir was attacked somewhere east of this place. We will cross the River Morthond tomorrow and see if we can find a trace."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 69, Gondor, eastbound  
  
Vlohiri despised the idea of walking alone, but no one rode to the east, and he would not wait until that changed. He felt the urgency to reach Minas Tirith as soon as possible like a weight on his shoulders, for every time he put himself to sleep he saw Aragorn's face when he announced that he must attempt to escape again. And with a shiver the boy forced himself to think that the King would be all right when he returned with help.  
  
Herebrand had told him that he would be on the old path for more than five weeks – if he walked fast. He needed a horse, but no villager would lend one to him, and he had nothing to trade. So he left the old man after he had reached the farm. He had given him enough food and water to last for three to four days, and the boy used it sparingly. He knew that there would be enough water to drink from the little creeks he had to cross, but he was insecure to find something to eat.  
  
He remembered Lomac saying he should avoid being seen. The guards from the castle might find out that he left and would follow him. Lomac had been strict about it, so Vlohiri turned many times on his way to make sure he could eventually evade riders from the castle. But he had not seen a single soul for the time of day and trudged on, his head bowed. It was good that he walked for a cold wind tried to cool him out, and he did not want to think about the night to come. Where should he sleep when there was no farm? He was too inexperienced to camp, and the last nights had been uncomfortable. He walked faster. He had to stay warm as long as possible.  
  
The weight of Trossénen's gift felt good at his right side. When he had been alone the first time he had carefully unwrapped it. Now he possessed a knife – a wonderfully crafted blade with a dark wooden hilt with embedded signs that meant nothing to him, but it looked as if it had been made with care. He had put it back in its sheath and carried it on his belt, but hidden under the cloak Herebrand's wife had given him. The old woman had been very friendly to him, something that had not happened often before in Vlohiri's life. Now it felt that he carried some of her warmth with him.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 70, east of River Morthond  
  
There would be only daylight for another hour and after the fast and strenuous ride they longed for a rest. But Éomer had word from a peasant that five men were seen somewhere south of the meeting point, and he would not wait another day. He spurred his horse again, leaned forward on the saddle and felt the soft scratching of the mane in his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his men riding beside him. For a moment he was set back to the day on the Pelennor Fields where they had fought the armies from Mordor besieging Minas Tirith. It had been a glorious and yet mournful day. He had lost King Théoden to his fate, he lad lost many of his men, and his beloved sister had been ill for a long time. They had won in the end, and that was something worth remembering. The moment the armies of the enemy had fled and were destroyed was saved in his memory forever.  
  
"My Lord! Look!"  
  
Éomer raised his head. From afar two horses were slowly approaching, one man walking beside them. The King nodded and held the reins loose so his stallion almost jumped forward. Within minutes they reached the little group, and he smiled broadly when he recognised the Prince of Ithilien.  
  
"Faramir, my friend!" They dismounted quickly and embraced. "It is so good to see you!"  
  
"It is even better to see you. We are really in need of help."  
  
"It is granted. The news I heard in Minas Tirith said you were missing!"  
  
"I was. It was a long way back, and the men who did it are still out there."  
  
"That's why you ride disguised?" Éomer laughed with his chin nodding to the two cold-blooded animals. "Or do you like being slow?"  
  
"I always like that you have a joke on me."  
  
Éomer slapped him on the shoulder.  
  
"Well, I thought you might want to have yours back." He whistled, and one of the riders brought Faramir's horses. "We might be faster. If there is need to be."  
  
"Thank you, my friend. Where did you find them?"  
  
"In a village nearby."  
  
"And the men who assaulted us? Have you seen any sign of them?"  
  
"No, I'm sorry." He ordered his men to pitch a camp, and they sat down at the fire to talk. "We crossed the southern lands to no avail. Ten days ago near the coast of Anfalas a man told us that he had seen Aragorn west of the ford of the River Morthond. That's why we are back here. We will start anew."  
  
Faramir gladly accepted warm water and dried meat the Rohirrim offered.  
  
"Two of my men are wounded, one died in the attack. One of the assassins was a noble man I saw in Minas Tirith during the coronation."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"I am. I cannot tell you his name, but he was there."  
  
Éomer frowned deeply and looked down to his cup.  
  
"It means that whoever wants to see you dead has support from at least one noble man." Faramir nodded slightly. "Where were you heading?"  
  
"Deromonor. My father's adviser told me that Lady Saborian was a friend of my father. And that her son could be... my brother."  
  
"Your brother?" Éomer set down the cup and looked up surprised. "But... if that child? Young man?"  
  
"He might be my age."  
  
"If he is Denethor's son, why does the Lady live on the western rim of Gondor?"  
  
"I do not know, but I will ask her as soon as we arrive."  
  
"Deromonor's no friendly place. I was there three weeks ago. The reception was... strange. The Lady did not seem to be fond of my visit. Well," he added with a thin-lipped smile, "I accused her of capturing the King – in a way. But I did not find him." He took a branch and threw it into the fire. "I looked everywhere. It would be a place to hide someone – even if he is the King of Gondor. But I came up with nothing. They had captured a poacher weeks ago, but he had obviously been set free before we arrived. And none of the servants could tell me anything."  
  
"Did you see her son? Sadur?"  
  
"Yes. A reserved person. Polite but taciturn." He breathed deeply. "But he looked like your father in a certain way. I never met Denethor as a young man, but... it might be that the Steward is his father." They locked eyes, and then Faramir told him about his meeting with Nereghor and closed:  
  
"There are no more legal successors in my line. There would be no Steward from my house anymore."  
  
"And with the King gone..." Éomer emptied his cup. "Let us hope we find more answers when we arrive." He rose. "Take a good rest, my friend. We ride with the first light of the day."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 71, Gondor, eastbound  
  
Vlohiri hid in the little barn, unable to move, breathing heavily, clutching his sack to his stomach, and listening to the sounds from the outside. He had evaded three riders, but if they searched every house he would be found.  
  
Slowly, swallowing his despair, he rose from the hay and peered through a hole in the wood. He could hear voices, but saw no one. They had turned to the main house, and his hope was lifted when the voices faded away. He threw the sack over his shoulders and almost on all fours crept out of the barn. It had been warm there, and the cold wind felt hard in his face. The sun set, and he would – hopefully – find another place to hide somewhere in the wilderness. It was a pity he had to leave the farm behind without asking for permission to sleep there or get food. He was hungry, and his stomach rumbled when he thought about bread and cheese and apples maybe. He had not much food left, and he did not know how many farms lay ahead. But with the riders in his neck he would not get far and would find no safe shelter.  
  
He turned, but only the horses could be seen. It would be daring to steal one of them, but – how should he ride it? No one had ever taught him, and it was far too risky to go back. He hurried to a group of bushes, hid and looked back again. Still no sign. Quickly he went on, running from one hideout to the next. Always with a look back over his shoulder. He felt his heart in his throat. The men must come from the castle, he thought, and hurried on. If he survived the night undiscovered they might pass him by and ride on.  
  
Suddenly he heard someone yell. When he turned he saw Lanar pointing toward him. Vlohiri ran in panic. More yelling, then the tramping of hoofs. Vlohiri knew he could not outrun them. Tears streamed down his face. He had got so far! He ran on though he heard the hoofs and shouts drawing nearer. In the distance a group of riders approached. Fast. Could it be that Medros had sent all guards from the castle just to catch him? But then – he felt like dreaming – he saw a helmet with horses' tail to it, and a green banner, shining in the setting sun. Desperately, he evaded the first grab to the side, stumbled, falling on his knees. He got back to his feet only to hear Lanar's voice beside him.  
  
"Stop running, you bastard! It is over!" He turned his horse to bend down again to grab him and pull him up in front of him. Vlohiri struggled in his grip, screamed with fear, even bit Lanar's hand. Looking forward he saw the group again, closer now. The guard let go for a moment, but too short to slip away. Lanar hold his arm across the boy's chest, but on the top of voice Vlohiri screamed:  
  
"Éomer!"  
  
The riders got closer, the man with the banner riding beside a tall fair- haired man with a silver shining helmet. Vlohiri screamed even louder, a glimpse of hope in his mind that they would help him. They were close enough now to see their faces.  
  
"Éomer!"  
  
"Shut up!" Lanar ordered and directed his horse westwards, evading the upcoming group. But to his surprise they matched the movement. Lanar spurred his horse to gallop, the strange riders followed, and Lanar recognised the banner – the riders of the Rohirrim! He cursed viciously. Of all that could happen he had to cross with these horse people! Should they not be back in Rohan? "Hurry!" he ordered his men.  
  
"Help!" Vlohiri screamed and struggled again uselessly in Lanar's grip. The hammering of the hoofs drew nearer, shouts could be heard. "Help! Éomer!"  
  
The guards could not outrun them.  
  
"Hold your horses, or we will make you!" the first rider shouted loud enough to drown out the noise of the beasts.  
  
Lanar grinded his teeth.  
  
"Don't listen to them! Make haste!"  
  
The next moment a rider caught up with him, trying to tear away the rein.  
  
"Hold it!" he ordered, and Lanar saw with terror that it was Éomer. He drew his sword, willing to cut the man's arm.  
  
"Let go! This is not your business!"  
  
Éomer drew his own sword.  
  
"I just made it my business. Look back! We outnumber you! Let the boy go!"  
  
"No!" He held the blade to Vlohiri's throat, who abruptly stopped shouting. "I'll kill him!"  
  
From behind Faramir had reached the guard's horse. With the hilt of his sword he hit Lanar's head. The sword fell off Lanar's hand. Unconsciously he doubled up, burying the boy under him. Éomer quickly pulled him over to his horse while Lanar fell off, his horse running on. His two men were beaten, too, and the Rohirrim gathered quickly, protecting the boy, who was shaking so badly he would have fallen if it were not for Éomer's firm grip. Faramir rode at Éomer's side and, when they halted, carefully lifted the boy's chin. For a moment he found no words to his surprise.  
  
"I have seen your face before. I know you, my boy. You are the one from the dungeon," he said softly.  
  
Vlohiri drew up his nose and looked at him full of fear.  
  
"No! It cannot be! I never saw you! How can you know that?"  
  
"It was a dream I had," Faramir explained, but to Vlohiri it sounded like a strange language.  
  
He twisted his head so he could see the rider's face.  
  
"You are Éomer? Éomer of Rohan?" Vlohiri's voice was begging. It had to be him!  
  
"Yes, I am." Frowning with surprise Éomer took off his helmet and hooked it to his saddle. "Where do you know my name from?"  
  
"I saw you in the castle."  
  
"Deromonor? You are from the castle?" The boy nodded, still unable to stop crying. He could still feel the blade at his throat. The awful second when he thought he would die. "And who might you be, my friend?"  
  
"I am Vlohiri." He took a frightful look around, still drawing up his nose. But neither Lanar not his men were to be seen. He wiped his face. "Aragorn sends me to get to you."  
  
"Aragorn? You met Aragorn? Where? When?"  
  
"In the castle. He's in the castle. Please, you have to help him!"  
  
"We will." Éomer was breathless suddenly. Out of everything that had happened this was the news he had counted on least. "But right now we need a place to stay for the night. Let's head back to the farm." He ordered his men to follow, and quickly they rode the way back. While the Rohirrim pitched a camp outside the farm's main land Éomer, Faramir and his men rode up to the house.  
  
Vlohiri felt his stomach somewhere in his throat when they arrived, and he was no longer hungry. Éomer dismounted and helped him down. His knees were weak, and he stumbled.  
  
"Ho! Wait, young friend! Let me help you."  
  
"I'm all right. I can walk."  
  
Éomer raised his hands, not touching the boy.  
  
"If you come from the castle you already covered some ground, I suppose."  
  
"I come from the castle," Vlohiri stated obstinately. "I can prove it!"  
  
"I did not doubt you. It is just amazing that you got this far."  
  
Faramir's pleading to stay in the barn for the night was granted when the elderly couple realised they had a boy with them, and they even gave him a meal. Vlohiri took it, but had to wait some minutes until he could eat. Faramir and Éomer restrained themselves from further questions until the boy was satisfied and walked with them to the barn. There he took off the belt.  
  
"Here... he put his name on it, he said. I could not read it, but he said, you have to dye it." He shrugged. Faramir took the belt and held it to the light outside the barn. Carefully he applied some soot to the lines. "You can help him, right?"  
  
"Where is he? I was there, and I did not find him." Éomer pinned the boy with his stare, and Vlohiri bit his lips.  
  
"You would never have found him. They hid him that day you arrived. Somewhere deep down. He said it was the worst place. He is in the dungeon."  
  
"In the dungeon!" Faramir echoed, coming back. His face was full of sorrow. "I cannot believe this." He handed back the belt. "These are Elvish runes. It is his name. The boy speaks the truth."  
  
"I told you so!" Vlohiri forcefully stated. "You have to free him! He said he would attempt it alone again."  
  
"He already made an attempt?" Faramir was excited. Every piece of the puzzle fell on its place.  
  
"Yes, some weeks ago. He got as far as the woods... then the hounds found him." Vlohiri found it hard not to cry. "They bit him – badly."  
  
"Lady Saborian lied to me," Éomer snarled, clenching his hands. "She lied right into my face." He had to get up to lose some energy. "She will pay for this."  
  
Faramir saw the strange look on the boys' face.  
  
"We will see to it when we get there." He turned to the boy. "When did you leave the castle?"  
  
"Days ago. I cannot tell how many. But I hurried, really!"  
  
"I know. You are a brave boy."  
  
"They almost killed him," Vlohiri whispered, unable to deal with the praise. He was tired and excited, exhausted and frightened at the same time. "And he said he would..." He broke off, realizing he had said that before.  
  
"Lay down and rest, Vlohiri," Faramir said. "We will ride tomorrow morning."  
  
When the boy fell sleep, Faramir joined his friend outside. Éomer could not restrain his anger.  
  
"That Lieutenant of her – Medros – he led me through the castle," he growled, pacing restlessly. "I asked him to see the dungeons, and there was no sign of the King."  
  
"It is not your..."  
  
"It is my fault, Faramir, and it will not be lifted until we find the King alive. Lady Arwen trusted me to find him – and I failed her." He clenched his hands. "He could be at home already if I had been more careful... I should have..."  
  
"My friend," Faramir cut in, calming him with his hand on his forearm. "This castle is old. I bet you could not even count the secret ways and rooms it has. And who would reveal these secrets to a stranger?"  
  
Éomer had stopped, but the regret in his face would not vanish.  
  
"They committed treason. And they will pay for it. Even if I have to storm that castle."  
  
Faramir let go.  
  
"How many guards did you count?"  
  
"Forty. Maybe more."  
  
"And how many men did you bring?"  
  
"Twenty." Faramir just looked at him to let him draw his own conclusions. Éomer made a disparaging movement. "They are weak. If we got to the Lady first they will surrender quickly."  
  
"If there is an open fight we cannot win it, Éomer. And if she already sent guards to capture the boy she knows about the threat."  
  
"The southern tower is almost destroyed. There might be a way through."  
  
"We will see."  
  
"But I will not wait another week to get back in there."  
  
"I assure you, I want to talk to the Lady as much as you do."  
  
"It is not talking I'm thinking about."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 74, the castle  
  
There was nothing left of a kingly appearance. Though he had allowed that the prisoners could wash themselves the dirt from the mine stayed on them, and the former King – now mourned for by his people – was no exception. And the nights of forced immobility did their share.  
  
Sadur, with his hands folded on his back, slowly and silently left the dungeon's corridor to head back into the light. He had visited the mine the day before to find the workers and prisoners treated the way he had ordered. They got food and water, and most of the prisoners were allowed to walk without shackles as long as they were only working. The King was handcuffed all the time, and Sadur agreed with the Lieutenant that any ease would provoke another outbreak. So the foot-chains and gag remained in place, and only the hateful stares told Sadur the King's thoughts. It was obvious that Aragorn had not yet given up. Sadur already assumed he would never, but as long as he worked and did not try in any way to stir unrest between the workers it did not bother him.  
  
His mother had welcomed soldiers from Noratis to reinforce the castle's defence in case of an attack. They knew from messengers that the Prince was still heading westwards though he was slow. Chances were few that Faramir would dare to come here with hostile intentions. Sadur still wondered what triggered the Prince's visit. But he would have to be patient. With the current speed on foot Faramir would need many days to get here.  
  
* * *  
  
Day 74, west of the castle  
  
The hideout in the woods was the first long rest they allowed themselves. Éomer had pushed his men and horses with more speed than before, eager to get back to Deromonor – eager to find the King and face the villains. His anger was fuelled with every bit of information the boy revealed, and he still dwelled on these accounts when he forced himself to sit at a trunk. Vlohiri evaded his fierce stare, and Éomer reminded himself that he had to calm down. He found it hard to rest, but men and horses needed time to recover. One man had been sent back to Minas Tirith to report the discovery of the King, but Éomer knew that this did not mean they would return to the White City quickly.  
  
Orilan had brought the news that the castle's gates were open, but he had seen soldiers on patrol – some of them with cuirasses different from those of the castle.  
  
"She called for reinforcements," Éomer growled deep in his throat. The chances to attack the castle and win were almost non-existing. But he would dare it. His men had fought in the war against Sauron, and they would not linger to ride at his side through the gate.  
  
Faramir joined him, handed him a cup of water. For a moment they both looked at the boy, who had fallen asleep almost immediately after they had dismounted. The last days had been hard on him; he felt sick on the horse, but they had not slowed down. Éomer had heard him groan while he clasped firmly to the saddle. He pitied him, and now, when they were resting he thought about Aragorn's despair. He had sent a boy to call for aid – a choice he would never have made if there had been another. But Vlohiri had told him that the King had almost died from fever and wounds, and again Éomer's anger flared. Only the sight of the boy's fear had kept him from outraging his fury.  
  
"It is almost night," Faramir began. "They close the gate now. What is your plan?"  
  
Éomer slightly turned his head.  
  
"We attack first in the morning. Even if they are on patrol – I will not wait any longer."  
  
"We are twenty-three against maybe sixty or seventy. We will lose..."  
  
"I do not want to hear it, Faramir!" Éomer shouted and jumped up. "I was here before! Do you not understand? I could have saved him! Weeks ago! But I failed! I failed the King!"  
  
The boy stirred, and Faramir found no words to soothe his friend's self- accusation.  
  
"Every castle has a weakness," he said calmly. "We are no help for Aragorn if we get captured or killed ourselves."  
  
Vlohiri sat up and wiped his weary eyes.  
  
"Through the dungeon," he mumbled almost inaudible.  
  
Both Éomer and Faramir turned their attention to him.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"There is a tunnel at the eastern tower."  
  
Éomer squatted in front of the boy.  
  
"Tell me more about it."  
  
* * *  
  
Day 75, the castle, dawn  
  
From the northern part of the forest they slowly drew nearer. The horses they left behind with the two wounded men from Ithilien. Now, on foot, they tried to avoid any attention. Vlohiri led the group, though his heart seemed short of bursting out of his ribcage. Faramir had offered him to stay behind, but he could not. Vlohiri's voice of reason called him stupid to march right into the dungeon again, but he had not wanted to hear that voice. He had begun it. He would bring it to an end. And with the Rohirrim behind him it suddenly did not look like a hazard game at all. With their helmets, swords and armour the men appeared invincible – at least to a ten year old. And he did not allow himself to think about the next hour further than that they were finally entering the castle to save the King of Gondor from cruel punishment.  
  
They reached the entrance. Éomer and Faramir slowly opened the seldom-used door on its middle hinge while two men waited in the shadow if an attack came from the inside. But there was nothing more than dust, darkness, and spiders. Vlohiri shivered with the mere thought to go through that tunnel again, but, courageously, he stepped in first and held a torch to be lit. Others followed and the boy lost a part of his fear to the act of leading the way. It felt great – somehow – to help the saviours and he imagined the moment when the door would open to freedom.  
  
Right now he just bent to avoid hitting his head, and the tall men from Rohan almost had to crawl the way, but they were swift and determined. Within minutes they had reached the deserted part of the corridor. From far away voices could be heard, and for a long second Vlohiri feared the guards were drawing near, already aware of their coming. But when the door opened to the tunnel they were alone. The boy wanted to run, but Éomer held him back.  
  
"Wait. There might be soldiers down here. We..."  
  
"No soldiers," the boy interrupted with a determination the King of Rohan had not expected. "They only get down here to bring food or fetch the prisoners." He shook off Éomer's arm and ran through the corridor. Éomer had no choice but to follow quickly.  
  
Vlohiri's spirit lifted when he entered the deserted tunnel, but his hope to find the King here was gone immediately. The door was ajar, the cell empty except for a rigid iron on the floor. The boy leant against the door- frame and almost whimpered.  
  
"He's not here," he said turning to Éomer. "The guards already brought him to work."  
  
"Then we go there. Do you know the shortest way to the mine?"  
  
"I do." Vlohiri pointed to the next tunnel. "This way."  
  
Éomer put a firm hand on his small shoulder.  
  
"My friend, stay with us, it is safer for you."  
  
And for the longest part of the way Vlohiri stayed at Éomer's side, but when they reached the entrance the boy quickly turned right, escaping Éomer's grip. The next moment two guards shouted for their comrades seeing the intruders trudging into the mine. They drew swords, and, fighting, Éomer lost eye contact with the boy. The Lady's guards were well trained, but not as determined and truly not as much enraged as Éomer. In a quick passing fight he hit the first opponent's neck and punched another one unconscious. He hurried to follow the boy, but there were many tunnels to choose.  
  
"Vlohiri!" he shouted and heard within the hacking a thin voice answering. Then the pickaxes and shovels fell silent. Éomer and Faramir and some of the riders followed while the rest stayed behind for safety. "Vlohiri!" Again he had to wait and listen. A man attacked him with his shovel from the left, grunting and hissing. Éomer blocked and knocked the man out. Others followed, taking their axes up again to put the intruders to flight. Éomer did not want to kill them, just fought his way to the voice calling out for him.  
  
Vlohiri was breathless when he finally saw Aragorn. As in the days the boy had to work in the mine himself the King was shackled and gagged, and a chain bound him to the cart he was standing at to fill with stones.  
  
"Aragorn!" he shouted and threw himself forward, stumbled, got back on his feet and reached the man in seconds. The King dropped the shovel and returned the short embrace. Vlohiri pulled out his knife. "Éomer and your other friend, Faramir, are here!" he reported gladly while the King bowed to let the cord be cut. He spat out the gag. "They are following me!"  
  
"Watch out!" Aragorn shouted, but too late. Bayonor grabbed the boy in the back of his neck and tore him away from the King. The boy lost the knife.  
  
"You stinking bastard! I knew you'd come back!"  
  
Vlohiri screamed in terror. Then he hit the floor and fell silent. Éomer stormed through the tunnel. Without stopping he attacked Bayonor viciously, with all force. He let his anger flare, and Bayonor was unable to stand his ground.  
  
Faramir reached the tunnel.  
  
"Over here!" Aragorn shouted, and the Prince ran to his side. "The chains!" More guards poured from the tunnels. Workers followed with their axes. The Rohirrim got entangled in fights. Faramir hacked away another worker's tool. Only then he cut the chain that connected Aragorn to the cart. Quickly the King pulled the handcuff's chain on the edge of the cart. Faramir protected Éomer's back from an axe hit, then, in a fluent motion let the sword hammer down on the chain. It came apart. "I need a sword!"  
  
Faramir took the one from Bayonor who lay slaughtered on the ground and threw it to Aragorn.  
  
"That chain's too thick for cutting!" he shouted over the noise of the swords in the small tunnel. "Who got the keys?"  
  
"Medros! On a chain around his neck!"  
  
Éomer turned. Vlohiri sat up, holding a hand to his head.  
  
"Medros is not here!" the King of Rohan screamed through the tumult. "I will find him!" Pushing his way through he exited the tunnel while the fights went on.  
  
"Get over here!" Aragorn shouted when the boy cried out. A man fell to the ground nearby, and almost hit him with a shovel. "Now!"  
  
Vlohiri's face was contorted with fear. A man tumbled over him when he tried to reach the other side. A sword clanked loudly on the floor, and he screamed though the blade missed him. He crouched at the wall trying to blend in.  
  
"Are you all right?" the King asked, protecting himself against a guard that had knocked out a Rohan rider. The boy could only nod, his eyes fixed upon the fights going on. His courage was gone. He was panting and wished nothing more than to leave this awful place. "Stay where you are!" Another blow to the guard's face, and the man toppled over.  
  
Éomer ran upstairs, five of the riders following him. He grabbed the first man he saw by his collar.  
  
"Where's Lt. Medros? Answer quickly!"  
  
The servant swallowed hard and went limp. Éomer shook him.  
  
"Hall," the man croaked. "Main hall."  
  
The King dropped him, hurried on. Shouts announced that their presence had been revealed. Éomer did not care. He took the challenge as it came, shoving aside men he had defeated as he went. More soldiers came from the northern wing, some heading to the dungeon. Éomer knew he had to be quick. The tunnels were a bad place to fight. He ran into the hall. Medros and three guards already awaited them, swords drawn.  
  
"You better deliver yourself at once, Éomer of Rohan!" Medros shouted. "There is no escape from the castle! Your men are outnumbered!"  
  
"Even if there is one rider from Rohan to ten of your men, we will win!"  
  
Their swords met the first time, iron crashing on iron. They eyed each other with fierce determination. Both were experienced fighters, but with every strike Medros felt his strength fading. The King was not only younger, but outrageous – a force in itself that could not be bound, not defeated. Medros went down, bleeding from several wounds. Falling he drew his dagger, but Éomer noticed the movement, attacked at once. The dagger fell from Medros' blood-slippery hand, and the King stabbed his shoulder, disabled him. With his foot he shoved the sword away and grabbed the Lieutenants collar, ripping out the chain while the man winced with pain.  
  
"This was your last deed, Medros," Éomer hissed and knocked him out.  
  
Turning he faced two guards trying to block his way. The King almost smiled when the first attack came.  
  
Faramir knew they would not last long when more entered the tunnel. The Rohirrim stood their ground as long as they could, but the tunnel was narrow, only little room for a defence. They had to fight their way out. He glanced back. Aragorn elbowed one attacker, hit the next with his sword, but he was almost immobilised with that chain between his feet. And Vlohiri crouched on the ground, his back pressed against the wall. Faramir wished they had left him behind in the woods, but it could not be denied he had been helpful.  
  
"Move forward!" he shouted over the riot, throwing himself into the fights going on. "We must get out of here!"  
  
Suddenly a startled shout roared up from behind the lines of the fighters. Faramir recognised Éomer's helmet and knew their chances were suddenly better than expected. With renewed force Faramir and the Rohirrim pushed the guards back. They found themselves in a fight from two sides, and the battle they had thought won turned against them. Some were slain, some went down severely wounded.  
  
Éomer threw himself in like a ram, pushing men aside to reach Aragorn. He could see him behind two workers when a blow to his shoulder let his arm go numb. He changed the sword to his left hand and moved on.  
  
"Aragorn!" The King did not react, but the boy rose and watched, still pressing his back against the rough wall. Éomer dodged a shovel and hit the man in his stomach. He doubled over and fell on his knees. Éomer pushed him aside. "Vlohiri, take the keys!" He took the chain from his neck and threw it to the boy, who safely caught it. At the same moment a guard fell into Eomer's back. The King of Rohan stumbled, hitting the ground grunting.  
  
Aragorn saw his friend fall and a worker raise his axe. He leaped forwards, knowing painfully well how limited his range was, and caught the axe's handle. Torn back the worker yelled in surprise. Aragorn pushed him aside and turned to the boy.  
  
"Open them! Quickly!"  
  
Vlohiri rushed to oblige. Éomer got up, backing the King until he was on his feet again. With a short nod they both threw themselves into the fight again.  
  
The guards from the castle were beaten, the workers lost their tools, some simply dropped them and ran away. The prisoners yelled in glad surprise and left the tunnels as quick as they could. The men from Rohan followed, using the main tunnel to get to the castle. Aragorn looked back to find the boy only one step behind him, a feeble smile in his dirty face.  
  
"Come, Vlohiri, stay at my side. It is not yet over!"  
  
Sadur had heard the alarm. Calmly he ordered the guards to regroup and gather on the eastern side of the castle. The attack would only come from one side. Sadur thought that the attack was surprising, but in the end futile. They had more men to defend the castle than Faramir would guess. It was only a matter of time until the Prince of Ithilien was brought to him in chains. He looked forward to this encounter. He let a servant close his cuirass and put on his belt, sword and gloves before he left his room.  
  
Faramir was glad to see Aragorn defending himself with the same routine and effectiveness he had shown before. They elbowed their way through the main connection from the mine, crossing swords with soldiers who tried to stop them. Even with so few of them the riders from the Riddermark decimated the enemy swiftly. They reached the lower hall. Archers were positioned along the stairway, and they had to retreat until the first row of arrows was shot. Faramir covered the boy with his body and felt an arrow break away from his cuirass. Moving on they used the soldiers from the castle as protection, but some Rohirrim were lost before they had fought themselves through.  
  
"I search for the Lady!" Éomer shouted when the battle slowed down for a moment.  
  
Aragorn shouted orders over the riot, and he was heard. The men used their daggers to throw at the men upstairs. The archers were useless moments later, the distance to short to shoot. They changed weapons, but were already under attack. Within the tumult the King and Faramir tried to protect Vlohiri, who still was with them, unable to find a safe place to hide. Faramir dodged a blow. The man's sword clanged on the stone, and before he could raise it again, the Prince had punched him square in the face. He helped a Rohan fighter to get rid of his opponent, then ran upstairs.  
  
Sadur already waited for him. 


	10. Chapter 10

Éomer quickly finished the fight with two guards protecting the Lady's private room and simply crushed the door. One of his men followed, but the Lady was alone. She stood at the table, her face white as linen, and sternly looked at him. Her lips were bloodless, and she must had feared the King of Rohan, but still she stood upright in her dark red gown with the wide sleeves. She would have been a beauty if it were not for the hatred in her eyes.  
  
"You have returned," she stated coolly.  
  
"I have returned to accuse and sentence you for high treason, you snake," Éomer growled stepping closer so he could look into her eyes. "The King of Gondor will sit in judgement over you. If it was for me I would not be generous."  
  
"You overestimate your power," she gave back, not flinching, her hands still held down. "Even if you have gotten here you have not yet won."  
  
"The fight is over, and you lost it."  
  
"My Lord!" a shout came from the door and Éomer turned. A young man appeared on the threshold. "There are more soldiers coming up! We need you here! ... Watch out!"  
  
Éomer swivelled around. The Lady swung back her arm to strike, a long dagger in her hand. Éomer raised his right arm to block. The blade cut through cloth and flesh. He cried out with pain, punched the Lady with his left in the face. She dropped the dagger and fell on the ground. Éomer clenched his teeth, held his arm for a moment. Blood oozed between his fingers, and he wiped them on his tunic.  
  
"Damn it! ...Bind her and leave her here!" Knowing the Lady was unconscious Éomer gripped his sword tight and ran out of the room, into another ongoing fight. He swung his sword with both hands, cutting through leather and cloth viciously, driving the castle's defenders back with every strike. He was as much an example as an encouragement for his men. His sword fell on one more enemy, throwing him to the ground when Éomer suddenly could not see clearly anymore. Heavily breathing he blinked. To no avail. His sight was blurring even more. He heard shouts beside him, heard his name too, but he could no longer hold the sword, could not raise it to his defence. His strength was fading. In front of him a shining blade appeared to cut his throat and was deflected in the last moment.  
  
"My Lord! Get up!"  
  
Éomer had not known that he was on his knees, but was unable to straighten even with a helping hand. His sword slipped from his hand, clanged down the stairs. The King collapsed.  
  
Faramir heard the shouts from somewhere – Éomer had fallen. But he could not come to aid. Sadur was a fierce opponent and excellent swordsman. Faramir needed all his skill to stand his ground. Still Sadur drove him back with vicious strikes.  
  
"Now, Prince of Ithilien, is that all you can manage? Is that all you offer... ruler for the sake of the King?" Sadur snarled. "What makes you a Prince? You are nothing but the hated son of a great man!"  
  
Faramir felt the recognition of his father's features in Sadur's face like a heavy strike on its own. The Lord's face was contorted by anger – a sight Faramir remembered well of his father in his last days.  
  
The next blow made him stumble backwards. Behind them the battle was still violent, and if he could not push Sadur back he might get stabbed from behind. Faramir doubled his efforts, swung the blade faster, no longer aiming to only disable the Lord but to force him down. Sadur retreated a few steps and came forward again, taking the challenge. The Prince felt the pain in his almost healed arm again. From behind he heard Aragorn's voice still over the clash. He ordered to let those who surrendered live. Knowing the King was behind him he threw himself forward, parried the next blows and finally his sword cut through Sadur's weapon arm. The next hit ripped the sword out of his hand. The Lord expected the deadly blow with a stern expression.  
  
"Kill me, brother, if you have the courage."  
  
Faramir held his sword for the last strike, but hesitated. He had come here to meet Lady Saborian and her son – his brother. Within minutes they had turned from strangers to enemies. It was hard but just to end his life right here.  
  
"Let him be!" Aragorn ordered, running up the stairs.  
  
Faramir did not flinch.  
  
"He deserves death. He wanted to kill us both!"  
  
"He will get his punishment. I will see to that." Aragorn threw a pair of handcuffs in front of the Lord. "Put them on!" he commanded locking eyes with Sadur and staring him down. "Now!" Sadur hesitated, clenching his teeth. The tip of the blade still rested on his throat. One move would condemn him to bleed to death. "Faramir!"  
  
Behind them the noise ebbed away. Soldiers lay dead or wounded on the stairs and in the corridors, some had given up and were disarmed. Some had fled without a fight. The Rohirrim roared their success.  
  
Slowly the Prince lowered his weapon, but remained on alert when Sadur picked up the handcuffs.  
  
"Your dagger," Faramir growled threateningly and waited until Sadur had delivered it before he sheathed his sword. Aragorn watched as Sadur put on the shackles. Still the rings of handcuffs remained around his own wrists. He swung around, sword ready, when he heard steps coming up behind him.  
  
"Aragorn! Éomer was hurt!" The boy pointed to the next stairway, and Aragorn hurried with him down the corridor.  
  
"Lock him up!" he shouted back to Faramir, and the Prince smiled grimly when he escorted Sadur downstairs.  
  
"Where is Éomer?" Aragorn demanded to know when he did not see him at once.  
  
"That room," a man with the white horse on his cuirass pointed. "He was hit on the arm... and then he suddenly collapsed."  
  
Aragorn cursed under his breath.  
  
"He would not have been thrown down by that kind of wound!"  
  
"But he..."  
  
Aragorn's fierce look cut him off. The King stormed into Sadur's room where the King of Rohan had been laid on a bed. He knelt beside him, closing his eyes for a moment. He was exhausted, tired, and from a wound across his almost bare breast a gash still bled. Carefully he turned Éomer's right arm and opened the cloth. The long cut was swollen and deep red. Blood still oozed out of it.  
  
"With what was he hit?"  
  
"A dagger – the Lady's dagger."  
  
"Get me that blade! At once!" When he turned to Éomer again the man had opened his eyes. Pain showed in them, and Aragorn exhaled sympathetically. "I will help you as much as I can."  
  
Éomer's face glistened with sweat, and his smile was but a shadow.  
  
"Feels as if it is too late." He clenched his teeth against the pain.  
  
"You did not die at the Black Gate, my friend, and I will truly not let you die here." He turned again. Vlohiri stood nearby, his hands playing with the keys on the chain. He gave them to Aragorn. "Get Lomac – he shall bring the kingsfoil with him. And fetch water! Run!" The boy took off, and to the rider from Rohan he said, "Light a fire at once! Make haste!" Only then he used the key to open the handcuffs. His wrists were abraded, and he flinched when the metal bands came off. He dropped them and hung the chain with the keys at the bedpost.  
  
"I failed you, my King," Éomer said panting.  
  
"No." Aragorn put a hand on the man's chest. "Rest. I will take care of the wound."  
  
"I was here before... and I did not find you."  
  
"I know." He had to close his eyes for a moment when a wave of dizziness hit him.  
  
"You are hurt yourself."  
  
Aragorn smiled wearily and took a knife to cut off the rest of the sleeve. It was red with blood as well as the linen. A thin red line crawled slowly upwards.  
  
"My Lord... the dagger." The man held it in a piece of cloth, and Aragorn took it, smelled the dark liquid on it, then put it down. He tried to hide his concern, but his friend knew him well.  
  
"You do not know that poison," Éomer said weakly.  
  
"The healer will be here soon." When he turned Éomer had closed his eyes. "We will help you."  
  
"There you are!" a friendly voice said in his back.  
  
Aragorn turned and rose slowly. All muscles in his body seemed too tense to move.  
  
"Lomac." He gave him the dagger. "Tell me if you know the poison. The Lady used that dagger to stab my friend."  
  
"She did?" The healer put down his sack and pots and took the cloth with the weapon, turned it around, smelled it, even touched it with the tip of his finger, and squinted when he examined it. "It is good to see you again," he said in a conversational tone, and then gave back the dagger. "Seems to me you are fully healed, are you not? You caused quite an uproar in the whole castle. Or your friends did. More or less."  
  
"Do you know the poison?"  
  
"Yes – creeper leaves. Quite common in the south. Along the coast of Anfalas... She must have gotten it from a trader. I did not know that!" He smiled confidently. "Kingsfoil is a help – it will at least slow it down if not heal it." He gently pushed the King aside to kneel at Éomer's side. "It was not long ago, hum?" he said looking at the wound. "We got a good chance, I suppose." He turned to see Vlohiri come in with a bucket of water. "Oh, my little friend! I am so glad you are back! What a wonderful sight to my old eyes!"  
  
The boy grinned and hurried to fill the water in a big pot to hang over the fire.  
  
"You are far more than a poacher, hum?" Lomac said turning to Aragorn who stood upright, his chin lifted but with a cautious expression. "I thought so before."  
  
"You were right."  
  
Lomac huffed, unsatisfied with the answer.  
  
"The water needs some time to heat up. Let me take care of your wounds in the meantime."  
  
"There are others who are wounded worse."  
  
Lomac cocked his head.  
  
"Do you want to argue with me, young man? Sit down before you fall down." To the man from Rohan he said, "Send those who can walk up here, and carry those who cannot to the next room. There are beds on that floor. Use them." He turned to Aragorn again, who fumbled with the straps of the harness, but could not reach the clasps. "I think the Lady and the Lord will no longer rule Deromonor."  
  
"No, they will not."  
  
"Very well." He twitched his lips amused. "Shall I help you out of that harness?" The King did not share Lomac's sense of humour, but he turned so the healer opened it, and Aragorn shed out of the harness, and threw it on the floor. The chain attached to it rattled, and Vlohiri turned at once, his look frightened. Lomac raised his hand to calm him. "It is good now, my little friend, no more worries." He opened his sack, took out the little sac with kingsfoil and bandages, his eyes fixed on the boy who slowly got closer. "You found his friends," he nodded smiling. "That was very brave."  
  
"I was lucky," Vlohiri admitted lowly and shivered with the thought of Lanar holding the sword to his throat.  
  
"You are more courageous than many men," Aragorn said stepping closer. He let himself down on one knee. "You saved me, Vlohiri, as your mother called you. I am in your debt."  
  
The boy looked at him, swallowed, unable to find words. Finally his mouth twitched and he flung his arms around Aragorn's neck, holding him tight, eyes closely shut. At that moment all the strain he had endured fell off of him. He had fulfilled his task. He had set out to find help, and he had brought back Éomer and Faramir. He could not stifle the sobs, and the King held him until the boy had calmed down and stepped back, wiping his face.  
  
"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked Aragorn and the healer. He did not know whom to look at. He found it strangely embarrassing that the King of Gondor knelt in front of him and stepped back even further.  
  
"You could grind these leaves," Lomac smiled, and the boy hurried to oblige.  
  
Still Day 74  
  
Faramir ordered the Rohirrim to bring the Lady's soldiers and guards to the dungeon, and he ordered to take Lady Saborian to the cell the King had had before. Lord Sadur was brought to the adjoining cell with the restraints still on.  
  
Only then, knowing the wounded were taken care of, he met with Aragorn in Sadur's private room.  
  
"How is he?" he asked Aragorn, who sat at the bedside, his hands on Éomer's chest.  
  
Lomac finished bandaging a soldier and sent him out. Turning he said:  
  
"He will need time to heal. Kingsfoil can help, but it cannot do magic!" He cocked his head. "Who are you? You have a familiar face."  
  
"I am Faramir, son of Denethor."  
  
"Well, my young Faramir, can I help you – for you cannot help here."  
  
"No. I just wanted to report to the King."  
  
Lomac swiftly turned to stare at the not kingly looking man on the floor.  
  
"The King, hum?" he mused. "Well, that explains some things." His smile turned to laughter. Faramir frowned. "The King of Gondor! Now, now, sometimes magic arises from unseen places."  
  
But the Prince did not listen. He watched Aragorn's face. The King was losing strength. The months of imprisonment, the hard work, and now the fierce fights took a heavy toll on him. Gently Faramir put a hand on Aragorn's shoulder.  
  
"My Lord, you have to rest." Aragorn looked up, too tired to object. "The healer will take care of him now."  
  
"Of course I will do!" Lomac exclaimed happily. "Go, rest!" Faramir helped Aragorn to straighten. "There is a bed in the room..."  
  
"No," the King contradicted. "I will not leave him. I will stay here."  
  
"I will get you a blanket," Faramir offered and left the room.  
  
"Where is Vlohiri?" Aragorn asked, wiping his eyes.  
  
"Over there." The healer pointed to the fireplace. Vlohiri slept on a woollen blanket, covered with another. Aragorn smiled tiredly. "He is all right, just completely exhausted. The moment his work was done he fell asleep where he stood." Aragorn looked down upon Éomer's face. "He will survive, my Lord," Lomac said lowly. "Sleep. I am sure the castle will be safe now."  
  
Day 75, the castle  
  
Faramir stood on top of the eastern tower, overlooking the village in the morning's first sunshine. It was still cold, but he enjoyed the wind in his face. He had been able to sleep. No dream had bothered him, and he was more than glad that the dream about Aragorn had not predicted the King's death.  
  
Two of his men were dead, and six Rohirrim riders. Looking back it seemed more than amazing how well they had fought. Still he thought that he would have preferred to kill Lord Sadur, but he was safely locked away. He trusted the King would choose the right sentence.  
  
Lt. Medros had died during the night, and no one seemed to mourn him but his wife. Lanar and the two guards in his company had not returned. Many soldiers from the castle and those who had come to reinforce the defence had been killed, many were wounded and taken care of while the Rohirrim had celebrated during the night and were now still sleeping. Only a few men were awake to watch over the Kings and their followers, but the threat was over, the power of Lady Saborian broken. The servants and maids had been informed to continue their work until a new ruler would be chosen.  
  
Within the joy of the victory he felt strangely robbed of the possibility to learn more about his father – a side of him he had never experienced while he was still alive. The impression he had carried with him all the time was unpleasant. Denethor had never really loved him, but had him sent out to re-conquer Osgiliath in a futile fight. He closed his eyes for a moment. So many men were lost in that fight, and his return had almost led to his own death. He still could not understand that his father had been about to kill him. And where he did not succeed the Lady had tried to meet his intentions. What would happen if there were others who thought the same – that he should not live a life as the Prince of Ithilien?  
  
With a shiver he turned to step down the tower.  
  
Vlohiri awoke from a smell he had enjoyed before. Half smiling he rose, wiped his eyes and yawned. It had been the first night without disturbance – and without half sleeping on a horse. He could still recall the waves of nausea that had frequently haunted him. Lomac smiled at him when he came to the table.  
  
"Ah, you are up! Very well. If you do not mind you could get something to eat from the kitchen for all of us."  
  
"How's Éomer?" the boy whispered. The King's arm had been bandaged, but he still looked wretched.  
  
Lomac glanced over his shoulder.  
  
"He lasted the night, my little friend, and I am sure he will wake up during the day." He followed the boy's stare to Aragorn, who slept on the floor. "And he will be all right, too. Do not worry. He was just as much exhausted as you were. Now go."  
  
Vlohiri hesitated.  
  
"What will happen with us now?" he asked shyly, looking up. "The Lady and the Lord will be sentenced, but what about us? The servants, Narana, the grooms, and smiths?"  
  
"I am sure the King will take care of it," the healer soothed him. "But now... I am hungry. And when the men awake they will be, too."  
  
Vlohiri hurried out of the room.  
  
Narana as well as all servants working in the castle were upset like a swarm of bees in spring. Rumours spread that the riders from Rohan would stay at least a week and that all those who had served the Lady would be sentenced like her and her son. Anxiety ruled the kitchen when Vlohiri arrived. No one knew what would happen to them in the next days. Narana embraced the boy heartily.  
  
"You are back, Flea! I can't believe it! You survived!"  
  
Vlohiri struggled out of her arms, unable to understand why the cook was upset about his return.  
  
"I was sent to fetch help for the King," he explained flatly. "And I brought help. Now I need breakfast for the men upstairs. Lomac sends me," he added to make sure Narana worked quickly.  
  
"Of course, of course!" She laughed, looked at him, and laughed again. Then she turned to hand him fresh bread, cheese and some fruits. "The King was imprisoned here?" she asked surprised. "How could this be?" The boy did not answer. "You know the King then?" Vlohiri tried to put everything in the big basket to carry it. He nodded. "And...will he... will he sentence all of us? What about the castle? Who will rule it?"  
  
"I do not know that," the boy answered with surprise. Why did she ask him? She had never asked him anything before – except to whom he took the bread after supper.  
  
"Will you ask him?"  
  
The boy frowned.  
  
"No. I bring the breakfast." With that he left, confused more than anything.  
  
He crossed the corridors. Though not much had changed, they all looked different to him now. Truly the fights had left their traces, and the maids were cleaning the floors now, some shivering with disgust about the blood that had been shed. Strangers hurried past him, the white horse on their cuirasses. And all personnel looked terrified because they still expected another evil to happen. But all of this did not explain his awkward feelings. He was aware that it might not be the corridor and the people but himself being different from the boy he was before. He had risked his life to fetch help and had been successful. Lomac and the King of Gondor had trusted him.  
  
He mused over the evening when he had embraced Aragorn. It had been a most welcomed reward.  
  
Grinning he entered Sadur's room again. He realised he had never been here before the day of the fights. It was a big room with wall decoration, a large table and chairs. And on the broad bed Éomer was slowly opening his eyes. Vlohiri put down the basket and tugged at the healer's sleeve.  
  
"He's awake," he whispered.  
  
Lomac smiled confidentially.  
  
"I told you he would wake up." He turned and knelt at the bedside. "Welcome back, young Lord Éomer. Does your arm still hurt?" Éomer swallowed dryly and licked his lips. He was about to ask for water when the boy already handed a cup to Lomac. "Thank you, lad, you really are a help." Vlohiri grinned while Lomac helped Éomer to drink.  
  
"How long did I sleep?" the King asked.  
  
"All night. I changed the bandages several times. The wound will heal."  
  
"It still hurts."  
  
Lomac could not conceal his smile.  
  
"A good sign you are feeling it, is it not?"  
  
"I will give you an answer to that as soon as I can get up again."  
  
Lomac's smile deepened.  
  
"Well, then I do not think that I should force it!"  
  
"We will ride as soon as he can," Aragorn said from behind. "We all have been away from home for too long."  
  
"I sent one of my men to Minas Tirith three days ago. Lady Arwen will know where we are." Éomer tried to clench his right hand, but stopped when the pain rose.  
  
"I will send another to let her know the fight is over," Aragorn decided and left the room.  
  
Éomer closed his eyes.  
  
"What about my men?"  
  
"They are taken care of," Lomac said friendly. "Most of them celebrated during the night..." Éomer smiled weakly. "...and now they rest. The wounded were bandaged, but your men wait for a decision what to do with the dead."  
  
"We will take them home. They shall not be buried so far away."  
  
"Good. I will see to that." Lomac rose. "Rest. If you need anything..."  
  
"I stay here," Vlohiri offered without hesitation.  
  
"Very well." Lomac put a hand on the boy's head. "I will go see after the others."  
  
Aragorn had changed his clothes, but he was still missing his belongings. He went downstairs to the dungeon. The smell of dampness and mould cut off his breathing. He had to force himself the last steps down. All sounds and colours and the look of the dark walls would forever be burnt to his memory. He clenched his teeth. For almost three months he had been forced to live in a small cell, at times chained to immobility. He could still feel the weight of the iron on his hands.  
  
With clenched fists and his heart racing he reached the cells of the deserted corridor. The Lady stood at the small window, looking into the sun.  
  
"Where did you hide my sword and the rest of my belongings?" he demanded to know.  
  
Lady Saborian did not turn.  
  
"The victory is small, my Lord, but it will be my satisfaction that you have to return without them."  
  
"Do not let me ask you twice. I might choose to let you be judged by others than myself."  
  
"Is it not forthcoming that you sentence me to death? So what do you expect? Regret? That I beg for my life? I lived a fulfilled life, my Lord," she added turning. "So you can do with me what you want. I still will not see your reign legitimate. What more than a sword with a name have you got?"  
  
Aragorn found it hard to restrain his anger.  
  
"In her room," Sadur said from the adjacent cell. His voice was expressionless. "A compartment behind the cupboard."  
  
"Do you think you can save your life with that?" the Lady spat rushing to the door. "Do you think he will spare you?"  
  
"It is no longer important, mother. The treason was revealed. There is no reason for further resistance."  
  
Aragorn left the dungeon while Lady Saborian still argued.  
  
Faramir approached, and Vlohiri finished his breakfast with a frightful look. He had not yet forgotten that the man had seen him – without being even close to the dungeon! He swallowed the last bite and was about to leave when Faramir held him back.  
  
"Please, wait. I did not mean to fright you."  
  
"How... how could you know I was in the dungeon?" Vlohiri blurted out still undecided to stay or leave.  
  
"I had a dream." He sat on a chair. The boy still kept a safe distance to run. "I saw Aragorn in that dark cell. He was lying on the floor unmoving. Then you appeared at the door. You were saying something, but I could not hear it."  
  
Vlohiri shivered, and the meal lay heavy in his stomach.  
  
"You saw the night I found him when he was sick," he stated. "How can this be? If you saw him... why did you not come to help?"  
  
Faramir inhaled, but did not know what to say.  
  
"I could not see his face. Or where that cell was. But I set out to get here. Éomer and I had met shortly before we found you."  
  
"Lanar would have..." Vlohiri shivered. "For a moment..." He could not say it. He would dream of it many times, but was unable to speak of it.  
  
"No one will hurt you now."  
  
"I know."  
  
Day 80, the castle  
  
Éomer chose two young men to stay behind until Aragorn decided what to do with the castle and its inhabitants. The King of Rohan was – due to the care of the healer and Aragorn – on his feet again and eager to ride home. He ordered his men to pack enough food and water for most of the way so to not lose any time hunting. Faramir chose horses from the groom to carry Sadur and his mother, and the young man looked at him fearfully. He told the man to prepare the horses and left. On the way up he met Vlohiri who brought carrots from the pantry. His admiration for the young boy had grown by the minute when he learned how much he had done and risked to help the King survive in the dungeon.  
  
They both reached Sadur's room where Éomer and Aragorn spoke about the preparations to leave. Vlohiri's heart sank. Tomorrow the riders from Rohan, Faramir and Éomer would be gone, only a memory. He put the carrots on the table where bread and whine already waited and was on his way out when Aragorn called to him. He slowly turned.  
  
"Vlohiri, my friend, you truly look unhappy. Will you tell me why?" The boy looked from one man to the other, and on a sign of the King they left. They were alone, and still Vlohiri did not find words to describe his feelings. He stared at his feet. "Let me know what troubles you." The boy had thought about it for four days how he could say what he wanted to say, but now that he had the chance he did not open his mouth. "Have I to order you as the King of Gondor?" Aragorn teased him, and finally Vlohiri felt a smile tugging at his lips. "Is there a wish I can fulfil?"  
  
"I... I would have loved... to see Lady Arwen," he uttered, still unable to look up. He flushed deeply and did not see the King smile.  
  
"Did you think I would leave you behind?"  
  
Vlohiri raised his head caught by surprise.  
  
"You take me with you?" It was hard to believe.  
  
"Yes!" He almost laughed about the boy's puzzled look. "But you will have to ride."  
  
A smile broadened on Vlohiri's face.  
  
"I will."  
  
THE END  
  
June 2004: To whom it may concern – The first chapter of the (kind of) sequel by the name of "Twilight of the Gods" is posted under the joint penname KatzillaTimmy2222 on fanfiction.net --T. 


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